MLILiKAHU^/: 


'.  \  III  \  I 


>- 


—z  cc 


^VU  li\lWVh'4^ 


/n  { uv/uqn 


I 


L^& 


^C 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


-< 


,x\ll 


^ 


.N^' 


>- 


M\ 


%, 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/edwinboothrecollbOboot    '"^'"^ 


^' 


'J  ij jni   jui 


AWE  UNIVERi-//^         vVlOSANCElfj:, 


-< 


"'^'^OJIIVJ-JO^'-'^       '^%0JllVJdO>^  ^'^ilJ'JNVSO\'^^ 


.Ur 


S^?ZKmOR/u.  ^\WE  UNIVERS//, 


% 


■^ 


\m^    '^■^ommwi^^'       ^udnvsov^^     '%ii3AiNii-3HV^ 


-^MFi'VIVFR^ 


nviNr,firr,> 


^. 


J  ><i. 


^/, 


-J  c^. 


•Maj/\ll'li|■J!^^ 


^ 


't/Aav.'i(ii 


^.- 


3      u_ 


:J1       «Z? 


'/ojnvjjo^-^     ''-^ii/ojiivjdo^^ 


^OPCAllFOfl*^ 


4s: 


EDWIN  BOOTH 


JUNIUS    BRUTUS    BOOTH,  THE    ELDER,  AND    EDWIN    BOOTH,   1850. 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


RECOLLECTIONS    BY    HIS 
DAUGHTER 


EDWINA   BOOTH  GROSSMANN 


AND    LETTERS    TO    HER    AND 
TO    HIS    FRIENDS 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1894 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


THE  DEVINNE  PRE88. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Junius  Brutus  Booth,  the  Elder,  and  Edwin  Booth,  1850.  Frontispiece. 
After  a  daguerreot\T)e. 

FACING    PAGE 

Edwin  Booth  and  Grandchild,  1887 8 

After  amateur  photograph  by  Mr.  Ignatius  R.  Grossraann. 

Mrs.  Mary  Devlin  Booth 24 

After  a  photograph  by  Case  &  Getchell,  Boston. 

Edwin  Booth  in  1852 4^ 

After  a  daguerreotype. 

Edwin  Booth  in  1854 80 

After  a  photograph. 

Edwin  Booth  in  1864 112 

After  a  photograph  by  Brady. 

Edwin  Booth  as  "  Hamlet  "    i44 

Painted  by  OHver  I.  Lay,  1887.   Original  in  possession  of  Mrs.  OUver 
I.  Lay. 

Articles  Belonging  to  Edwin  Booth 162 

Drawn  by  Otto  Bacher  from  originals. 

1,  Bauble  used  in  "  Fool's  Revenge,"  made  for  and  presented  to 

Edwin   Booth.      Engraved  on   the  handle   is   the   following 
quotation  : 

"  O  noble  fool,  O  worthy  fool, 
Motley  's  the  only  wear." 

2,  Dagger  used  by  Edwin  Booth  in  "  Macbeth," 

3,  Antique  Roman  brass  lamp  used  by  Edwin  Booth  in  "  Riche- 

lieu." 

4,  Cane  carried  in  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew." 


200950 


VI  LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING    PAGB 

Articles  Belonging  to  Edwin  Booth 184 

Drawn  by  Otto  Bacher  from  originals. 

1,  Riclily  jeweled  sword  worn  in  "  Richard  111." 

2,  Crown  worn  by  luhvin  Booth  in  "  Macbeth." 

3,  4,  Dat;ger  and  sheath  worn  by  Edwin  Booth  in  the  character 

of  Haniht.  Handle  studded  with  Bohemian  garnets  and 
topazes  ;  steel  blade  engraved  on  one  side  witli  the  Booth 
motto, "  Quod  ero  spero";  on  reverse  side  with  his  name  and 
date  :  "  Edwin  Booth,  1867." 

5,  Wooden  pipe  used  in  "  Hamlet,"  in  scene  with  Rosencrantz  and 

Guildenstern. 

6,  Ring  worn  by  Edwin  Booth  in  "  Hamlet  "  during  a  period  of 

thirty  years. 

Edwin  Booth  as  "  Richard  HL" 208 

After  Jervis  McEntee's  oil  sketch.     Owned  by  The  Players  Club. 

Edwin  Booth  as  "  Richelieu  " 240 

Painted  by  John  Collier,  R.  A.,  during  Booth's  last  engagement  in 
London.  Exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy,  and  presented  by 
Mr.  Booth  to  Mr.  William  Bispham,  who  afterward  presented  it 
to  The  Players  Club. 

Edwin  Booth  in  1889 272 

After  a  photograph  by  Sarony. 

Edwin  Booth's  Dressing-room,  Broadway  Theater,  Dec,  1889.  278 

Outline  Drawing  by  Otto  Bacher  of  Back  of  Memorial  to 

Edwin  Booth  284 

Designed  by  Stanford  White. 


EDWIN  BOOTH 


[Written  in  Edwin  Booth's  prompt-book  of  "  Hamlet,"  by  himself.] 

"GENIUS,  THE  PYTHIAN  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL, 
LEAVES  HER  LARGE  TRUTHS  A  RIDDLE  TO  THE  DULL, 
FROM  EYES  PROFANE  A  VEIL  THE  ISIS  SCREENS, 
AND  FOOLS  ON  FOOLS  STILL  ASK  WHAT   'HAMLET '  MEANS." 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF 
MY  FATHER 


IN  a  letter  written  about  the  time  of  my  mother's 
death,  to  his  friend,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Osgood, 
by  whom  my  father  was  married  to  my  mother 
on  July  7,  i860,  my  father  said: 

You  have  been  pleased  to  mention  my  art,  and  to  express  the 
hope  that  I  may  be  spared  to  serve  it  long  and  faithfully ;  if  it 
be  His  will,  I  bow  before  it  meekly,  as  I  now  bear  the  terrible 
affliction  He  has  seen  fit  to  lay  upon  me ;  but  I  cannot  repress 
an  inward  hope  that  I  may  soon  rejoin  her  who,  next  to  God, 
was  the  object  of  my  devotion.  Your  sympathy  has  awakened 
in  my  heart  the  firmness  of  my  resolve  to  live  for  the  dear  in- 
nocent whose  goodness  shall  be  my  guide  to  her  so  loved  and 
mourned. 

So  it  happens  that  my  earliest  recollections  are 
associated  with  the  saddest  years  of  my  dear  and 
honored  father's  life,  and  in  him  was  centered  all 
that  was  most  sacred  to  a  lonely,  motherless  child. 
For  him,  therefore,  I  entertained  a  more  than  filial 
affection,  and  I  think,  indeed,  that  his  own  sorrows 
made  him  cling  more  closely  to  the  child  who  had 
been  left  so  suddenly  in  his  care. 


2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

One  of  my  first  recollections  is  that  of  feeling 
myself  tenderly  placed  in  my  little  crib  by  my 
father,  on  his  returning  late  at  night  from  the  play, 
and  finding,  as  he  afterward  related,  "  his  baby 
lying  asleep  on  the  floor."  Vividly  I  recall  one 
Christmas  morning,  when,  on  awakening,  full  of 
joyful  anticipations,  I  crept  out  of  bed  to  find  my 
stockings  generously  filled  with  toys,  and,  hang- 
ing near  by,  my  father's  socks  containing  only  his 
razors,  shaving-brushes,  and  other  small  accesso- 
ries of  his  toilet.  I  was  disappointed  almost  to 
tears  by  Santa  Claus's  neglect  of  so  good  a  father, 
but  my  father  kissed  away  the  "  water-drops,"  with 
a  merry  laugh,  which  I  can  hear  to  this  day.  He 
had  been  quietly  watching  me,  enjoying  his  little 
Christmas  deception. 

Although  his  natural  melancholy  undoubtedly 
had  its  effect  upon  my  early  years,  yet  he  always 
endeavored  to  throw  aside  the  gloom  which  had 
settled  upon  his  life,  and  would  assume  a  gentle 
gaiety, — never  boisterous, — in  order  to  amuse  and 
divert  my  solitary  hours.  In  him  I  felt  such  close 
companionship  that,  although  without  brothers  and 
sisters,  a  sense  of  my  own  loneliness  did  not  op- 
press me  so  much  as  the  solitude  of  my  father, 
which  to  my  childish  imagination  seemed  strange 
and  unnatural.  I  recall  his  moving  me  to  tears  by 
quoting  to  me  Tennyson's  verses,  "What  does  little 
birdie  say?" — the  first  poetry  I  ever  heard  him 
recite. 

It  was  long  before  I  could  thoroughly  disas- 
sociate   him     from    the     character    of  Hamlet,    it 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  5 

seemed  so  entirely  a  part  of  himself.  Indeed,  in 
that  impersonation,  I  think,  his  confined  nature 
and  pent-up  sorrows  found  vent.  He  told  me 
that  the  philosophy  of  Ha77ilet  had  taught  him  to 
bear  life's  vicissitudes.  He  inspired  me  with  a 
reverence  which  grew  with  my  years,  and,  later  on, 
when  fresh  sorrows  overtook  him  (which  I  was 
then  able  to  share  with  him),  I  assumed  an  almost 
maternal  attitude  toward  him,  Avhich  he  uncon- 
sciously developed  and  encouraged. 

His  nature  was  childlike,  trustful,  and  depen- 
dent, yet  he  was  always  my  wise  and  loving  coun- 
selor. How  often  would  he  quote  the  following 
adage  to  me  !  — 

If  your  lips  you  'd  keep  from  slips, 
Of  these  five  things  beware : 

Of  whom  you  speak, 

To  whom  you  speak, 
And  how,  and  when,  and  where. 

He  was  essentially  paternal  and  purely  domestic, 
and  these  qualities  were  never  tarnished  by  public 
favor  or  worldly  praise.  In  the  home  he  was  at 
his  best  among  his  favorite  pipes  and  books,  and 
surrounded  by  his  Lares  and  Penates.  He  loved 
personally  to  arrange  the  furnishings  of  his  home, 
and  carefully  studied  its  merest  details.  He  had  a 
woman's  taste,  and  his  artistic  touch  was  every- 
where evident.  His  delight  in  adorning  the  home 
never  led  him  into  extravagant  display,  for  his 
tastes  were  always  simple,  and  he  had  no  care  for 
ostentation. 


A  EDWIN    BOOTH 

With  boyish  enthusiasm  he  enjoyed  every  detail 
of  farm  Hfe,  and  loved  nothing  better  than  to  watch 
the  growth  of  the  trees  he  himself  had  planted. 
His  love  of  animals  amounted  at  one  time  almost 
to  a  passion.  He  felt  keenly  their  ill-treatment, 
and  he  once  told  me  of  his  own  experience  with  a 
pet  lamb,  which  used  to  follow  him  everywhere. 
One  day,  when  deep  in  the  study  of  a  new  part,  the 
lamb  endeavored  to  engage  his  attention  by  con- 
stantly pushing  its  nose  against  the  book.  My 
father  playfully  rapped  his  pet  on  the  nose  with 
the  cover  of  the  book,  when  the  lamb  turned  away 
sadly,  never  to  come  near  its  master  again.  My 
father  spoke  of  this  incident  with  sincere  regret 
and  self-reproach. 

He  was  greatly  attached  to  his  horses,  and  skil- 
ful in  the  management  of  them.  He  had  several 
narrow  escapes  while  driving,  one  of  which  I  wit- 
nessed as  a  child.  It  occurred  at  Long  Branch, 
behind  his  favorite  horse  Nellie,  when  his  buggy 
was  overturned,  and  he  was  thrown  beneath  his 
horse's  feet.  With  remarkable  agility  and  pres- 
ence of  mind,  he  picked  himself  up,  quieted  his 
horse,  and  then,  hastening  to  me,  tenderly  soothed 
my  alarm,  and  jokingly  remarked  that  his  spotless 
suit  of  white  flannels  was  hopelessly  ruined.  Years 
afterward  his  life  was  again  endangered.  He  was 
driving  with  a  friend  near  his  home  at  Cos  Cob, 
Connecticut,  when,  upon  reaching  the  brow  of  a 
steep  hill,  his  horses  ran  away,  and  he  was  thrown 
violently  out,  striking  a  telegraph-pole  by  the  way- 
side.    As  he  lay  partly  unconscious,  suffering  great 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  e 

physical  pain,  and  with  the  noonday's  sun  pouring 
down  upon  him,  he  saw  the  friend  with  whom  he 
had  been  riding  approach,  holding  a  portion  of  the 
broken  reins  in  his  hand.  My  father's  sense  of  the 
ludicrous  overcame  him,  and,  though  suffering,  he 
could  not  restrain  an  impulse  to  laugh  outright  at 
what  appeared  to  him  a  comical  situation.  I  recall 
how  he  was  brought  home  to  me  on  a  litter  fur- 
nished by  kind  neighbors,  and  how,  after  the  sur- 
geon had  bandaged  his  broken  arm  and  ribs,  he 
asked  with  a  faint  smile  for  his  favorite  smoke. 
He  had  a  severe  illness  from  internal  injuries  at 
this  time,  when  his  life  was  despaired  of 

He  bore  with  cheerfulness  the  frequent  discom- 
forts he  encountered  in  his  travels,  both  at  hotels 
and  in  the  provincial  theaters,  where  frequently  a 
temporary  dressing-room  was  all  that  could  be  had. 
So  far  as  I  know,  only  once  in  all  his  varied  ex- 
periences did  his  theatrical  wardrobe  fail  to  arrive 
in  time  for  the  performance.  This  occurred  in  the 
town  of  Waterbury,  Connecticut.  I  was  present 
at  the  performance,  and  I  wondered  at  his  ability  to 
render  the  part  so  gracefully  in  citizen's  attire,  for 
he  had  always  contended  that  he  could  act  only 
'■  in  costume."  Annoying  as  this  incident  was,  he 
enjoyed  the  novelty  of  the  experience,  and  fre- 
quently referred  to  it  in  later  years. 

His  loyalty  to  his  friends,  his  reverence  and 
consideration  for  the  old,  no  matter  in  what  sta- 
tion of  life,  and  his  manifold  charities  to  the  poor 
and  needy,  were  not  the  least  among  his  many 
virtues.     His   modesty    in    bestowing    favors    ex- 


6  EDWIN   BOOTH 

tended  itself  even  to  the  members  of  his  family, 
and  his  beautiful  o-ifts  to  me  were  offered  with  a 
tender,  shy  reserve.  His  unselfish  devotion  to 
his  mother  and  invalid  sister  were  conspicuous 
among  his  domestic  traits.  In  order  to  spare  his 
aged  mother  the  painful  knowledge  of  a  serious 
accident  which  had  rendered  her  helpless,  he  for- 
bade any  one  telling  her  the  nature  of  it,  dreading 
to  add  one  more  drop  of  bitterness  to  her  cup  of 
sorrow;  and  she  died  unaware  of  what  had  befal- 
len her,  save  to  wonder  at  her  utter  helplessness. 
When  his  leisure  permitted,  he  never  failed  to  pass 
an  hour  or  two  daily  with  his  mother,  cheering  her 
lonely  hours  with  humorous  anecdotes,  and  with 
reminiscences  of  his  boyhood.  Never  spoiled  by 
the  adulations  of  women,  he  ever  held  the  sex 
in  high  respect.  He  was  a  loyal  and  devoted 
husband,  and  on  many  occasions,  after  the  play, 
I  have  seen  him  tenderly  nurse  his  invalid  wife  (to 
whom  he  was  married  in  1869),  thus  often  losing 
his  much-needed  rest. 

When  scandalous  tongues  attacked  the  privacy 
of  his  home,  he  refused  to  contradict  the  false 
reports  circulated,  and  invariably  replied  to  my 
earnest  protestations,  "  My  daughter,  all  will  yet 
be  well."  His  dignity  of  demeanor  toward  his 
detractors  won  for  him  a  host  of  defenders.  My 
intimate  knowledge  of  his  heroic  sacrifices,  his 
early  struggles  and  privations,  his  crushing  sor- 
rows and  bitter  disappointments,  had  made  of  my 
father  a  hero  in  my  eyes,  and  I  admired  his  noble 
manhood  even   more  ardently  than  I  cherished  his 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  7 

genius.  The  public  little  knows  of  his  struggles 
against  physical  pain  when  rendering  his  difficult 
roles.  How  I  loved  to  wait  upon  him,  to  rouse 
him  from  his  customary  nap  before  the  perfor- 
mance, to  brew  his  favorite  cup  of  tea,  his  only  re- 
past before  starting  for  the  theater  !  He  rarely 
allowed  me  to  peep  behind  the  scenes,  but,  as  an 
occasional  treat,  I  was  permitted  in  his  dressing- 
room  to  see  him  "paint  his  face"  for  his  various 
characters.  His  method  in  this  was  artistic  and 
painstaking  to  a  degree.  He  never  exaggerated 
the  natural  lineaments  of  his  face,  but  followed 
them  out  to  suit  the  age  and  expression  of  the 
character  he  was  about  to  represent.  He  has  told 
me  how,  in  originating  a  "make-up"  for  Rich- 
ard II.,  he  clothed  the  character  in  his  mind  with 
the  features  of  the  accepted  portraits  of  Christ,  and 
finally  concluded  to  adopt  them  as  being  best 
suited  to  the  person  of  the  unhappy  king. 

In  spite  of  his  long-accustomed  visits  to  the 
theater,  he  was  scrupulously  punctual,  and  rarely 
kept  his  audience  waiting.  So  remarkable  was 
his  memory,  that  I  cannot  recall  ever  having 
seen  him  study  from  the  book  even  such  plays 
as  he  had  not  acted  in  many  years.  Upon  my 
asking  him  if  he  did  not  find  it  necessary  to 
refer  to  the  text,  he  replied  that  it  never  oc- 
curred to  him  to  do  so,  as  the  lines  returned  to 
him  as  clearly  as  though  he  had  recited  them  but 
yesterday.  I  tliink  it  is  well  known  to  all  that  he 
spared  neither  trouble  nor  expense  in  enhancing 
the  beauty  of  the  Shaksperian   productions  at  his 


8  EDWIN    BOOTH 

own  r Booth's)  tlieater,  which  he  personally  super- 
intended. His  knowledge  of  costuming  was  very 
accurate,  and  his  powers  of  observation  at  all 
times  were  very  keen.  His  eye  instantly  detected 
the  merest  detail  in  decoration  or  costume. 

It  is  needless  for  me  to  speak  here  of  what 
he  achieved  for  the  profession  which  he  helped  to 
elevate ;  that  will  be  told  at  some  future  time  in 
his  biography.^  His  powers  he  was  ever  striving 
to  perfect,  and  his  Ilamlct  undoubtedly  mellowed 
with  his  years ;  indeed,  all  his  characters  seemed 
to  grow  in  strength  and  beauty. 

Among  his  varied  gifts,  his  literary  ability,  both 
for  prose  and  verse,  were  considerable.  Unfor- 
tunately, he  declined  to  write  much  for  publica- 
tion. He  also  had  a  decided  taste  and  talent  for 
sculpture,  and  in  the  studio  of  his  friend  Launt 
Thompson  modeled  a  miniature  bust  in  clay  which 
was  pronounced  excellent.  But  he  never  cultivated 
these  natural  gifts. 

He  was  exceedingly  careful  that  I  should  wit- 
ness only  such  plays  as  were  not  too  advanced 
for  my  years  in  childhood.  To  visit  the  theater 
was  a  rare  pleasure ;  indeed,  I  ever  regarded  it 
as  such,  but  during  my  earlier  years  I  was  per- 
mitted to  indulge  in  theater-going  only  as  an  occa- 
sional "  treat." 

I  have  often  been  asked  what  was  his  favorite 
character.  This  was  a  difficult  question  for  him 
to    answer    himself.      He   was    undoubtedly    more 

1  These  reminiscences  were  written  some  months  prior  to  the  pul^lication 
of  Mr.  William  Winter's  life  of  my  father. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  g 

in  sympathy  with  the  character  of  Hamlet^  which 
was  generally  accepted  as  his  masterpiece,  but 
I  have  heard  him  say  that  it  was  not  the  char- 
acter he  most  enjoyed  acting,  Hamlet  being 
largely  in  monotone,  I  think  he  found  a  certain 
relief  in  more  robust  parts.  In  Germany  I  have 
heard  competent  critics  place  his  Lear,  lagv,  and 
Othello  first  among  his  representations.  In  Berlin, 
Professor  Werder,  an  ardent  admirer  of  his,  and  a 
"learned  judge"  of  dramatic  art,  shared  with  me 
my  private  box  on  the  occasion  of  his  performance 
of  the  role  of  Othello.  His  enthusiasm  was  indeed 
gratifying,  and  he  told  me  afterward  that  my  fa- 
ther's conception  of  Othello  s  character  was  more 
poetic  than  he  had  ever  imagined  it  could  be.  He 
awarded  to  my  father  a  place  as  a  Shaksperian 
actor  even  above  the  renowned  Gustav  Emil  De- 
vrient.  The  impartial  approbation  of  his  German 
critics  was  especially  valued  by  my  father,  and 
often  in  later  years  he  reverted  to  the  appreciation 
of  his  audiences  in  Germany  as  one  of  the  crown- 
ing records  of  his  professional  career. 

In  spite  of  frequent  entreaties  to  return  to  Ger- 
many, he  preferred  to  pass  his  remaining  years 
among  his  countrymen,  whose  fidelity  to  him 
never  failed  to  inspire  him.  His  temperament 
was  one  of  the  most  equable  I  have  ever  known, 
and  his  sense  of  justice  was  an  overruling  virtue. 
Generous  almost  to  a  fault,  he  never  spoke  of 
his  many  charities,  and  only  now  that  he  has 
passed  away  forever  do  I  learn  of  his  numerous 
good  deeds. 


j^^  KDWIX    liOOTlI 

ICvcrv  one  who  came  into  his  presence  felt  the 
chdvm  aiul  the  lovable  ciualities  of  his  nature.  1  lis 
pleasures  he  iook  move  soberly  than  his  associ- 
ates, although  his  enjoyment  was  equally  as  keen. 
Hearty  laut^hter  he  seldom  indulged  in,  as  it 
gave  iiim  physical  pain,  often  producing  severe 
asthma.  For  this  reason  he  sometimes  conquered 
an  irresistible  desire  to  laugli,  though  I  have  seen 
him  affected  almost  to  hysterics  by  some  humor- 
ous incident  or  anecdote. 

His  absolute  worship  of  our  children,  and  his 
evident  j)rid('  in  them,  completed  the  happiness  of 
our  home  life.  He  never  wearied  of  their  frolics, 
and  he  often  crept  about  the  floor,  romping  with 
them  in  boyish  glee.  He  allowed  them  unusual 
liberties,  and  pulling  his  hair  was  a  daily  pas- 
time with  them.  Even  during  the  last  summer  of 
his  life  (i  892),  which  he  passed  entirely  in  our  home 
at  Narragansett  Pier,  he  never  complained  of  the 
children's  noisy  prattle,  and  their  wise  sayings  and 
childish  play  always  amused  and  diverted  him. 

During  meal-time  he  would  gently  reprove  our 
noisy  little  ones,  whose  voices  often  grew  too  loud, 
by  quoting  in  his  exquisite  and  inimitable  way  the 
words  oiLcar: 

Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Gentle,  and  low,  an  excellent  thing  in  woman. 

It  was  during  the  last  summer  of  his  life  that 
my  father  had  an  illness  in  our  home,  during 
which  I  nursed  him.  It  tore  my  heart-strings  to 
have  him  take  my  hand  and  say,  "  Daughter,  you 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  jj 

make  me  like  to  be  sick."  For,  alas !  I  realized 
that  even  then  it  might  be  but  the  beginning  of 
the  sad  end  so  soon  to  follow ;  and  I  sometimes 
wonder  now  if,  in  his  growing  helplessness,  he 
too  did  not  think  so.  Feeble  as  he  had  become, 
he  steadily  refused  all  offers  of  assistance  in  his 
toilet  or  daily  occupations.  His  giant  will  out- 
lived his  declining  physical  powers,  and  up  to  the 
very  end  he  remained  firm  in  his  heroic  efforts  not 
to  yield. 

It  is  not  generally  known  that  he  possessed 
a  natural  love  and  ear  for  music,  though  he  did 
little  to  cultivate  his  taste  for  it,  and  that  he  had 
in  his  bovhood  studied  the  violin,  and  could  then 
play  upon  that  instrument  with  some  skill.  He 
always  enjoyed  hearing  music,  especially  the  simp- 
ler melodies,  and  all  ballads  of  a  national  character. 
I  recall  one  old  ballad  in  particular  which  pleased 
him,  called  "  Fair  Zurich's  Waters,"  the  refrain  of 
which  contained  a  curious  yodel,  which  he  de- 
lighted in  imitating,  much  to  my  amusement. 
He  indulged  in  this  "vocal  aria"  during  our  tour 
in  Switzerland,  and  I  can  picture  him  now,  upon 
our  reaching  Zurich,   yodeling  forth  the  refrain. 

In  those  days  of  our  foreign  travels  he  was 
almost  boyish  in  animal  spirits,  his  keen  sense  of 
the  ridiculous  affording  us  both  many  hours  of 
pleasure.  The  ocean-voyages  seemed  to  give  him 
renewed  vigor,  and  his  striking  face  and  figure 
always  attracted  much  attention  as  he  paced  the 
deck.  Although  he  had  grown  accustomed  to 
public  recognition,  yet  I  think  he  scarcely  realized 


J  2  KDWIN    BOOTH 

how  nuicli  he  was  the  central  fig-ure  wherever  he 
appeared. 

His  self-possession  in  moments  of  danger,  as  in 
tlie  instance  when  he  barely  escaped  a  madman's 
hiilK>t,  was  striking.  'I'his  occurred  many  years 
ago,  while  he  was  fulfilling  an  engagement  in  Chi- 
cago. During  the  prison-scene  in  "  Richard  II." 
the  report  of  a  pistol  rang  out  from  the  theater 
gallery,  and  in  the  excitement  my  father  stepped 
to  the  foot-lights  and  quietly  pointed  out  a  man 
who,  with  pistol  aimed,  was  about  to  fire  again 
directly  at  the  stage.  My  father  had  heard,  or 
rather  felt,  the  first  bullet  whiz  above  his  head, 
and  instinctively  knew  it  was  intended  for  himself; 
but  with  undaunted  courage  he  continued  his  part, 
after  first  withdrawing  behind  the  scenes  for  a  mo- 
ment to  soothe  his  anxious  wife.  I  saw  him  on 
the  following  day,  and  he  appeared  perfectly  calm 
and  even,  and  defended  from  all  blame  the  poor 
lunatic  who  had  so  nearly  ended  his  career.  The 
bullet  was  found  lodged  in  the  canvas  of  a  scene 
only  a  few  inches  above  my  father's  head.  This 
ghastly  souvenir  he  had  mounted  in  a  gold  cart- 
ridge, and  had  engraved  thereon  his  own  humor- 
ous thought,  "To  Edwin  Booth  from  Mark  Gray" 
(the  name  of  the  would-be  assassin).  This  me- 
mento is  now  in  my  possession. 

I  have  often  regretted  that  I  did  not  jot  down 
the  many  amusing  anecdotes,  witty  sayings,  and 
"  hairbreadth  'scapes "  that  were  related  to  me 
by  him.  Among  the  latter,  he  told  me  how  he 
and  his  old-time  comrade,   Mr.   David  Anderson, 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF    MY    FATHER  i^ 

when  together  in  Australia,  often  in  the  heat  of 
noon  took  their  do  Ice  far  niente  beneath  the  shade 
of  cocoanut-trees.  While  musing  thus  one  day, 
my  father  remarked  to  his  friend,  as  he  gazed  at 
the  huge  cocoanuts  above  them,  "What  if  one 
should  fall,  and  strike  us  on  the  head,  and  kill  us?" 
His  friend,  undisturbed,  laughingly  replied  that 
such  a  fate  was  not  likely,  as  the  fruit  was  yet 
green ;  but  father  instantly  changed  his  position, 
and  no  sooner  had  he  done  so  than  a  large  nut 
fell  exactly  over  the  spot  where  he  had  previously 
been  sitting.  Throughout  his  life  he  had  many 
similar  strange  premonitions  of  danger,  and,  like 
Napoleon,   he  had  faith  in  his  "  star." 

I  have  referred  already  to  his  modest  acceptance 
of  the  many  public  favors  and  honors  showered 
upon  him;  and  his  retiring  nature  would  not  per- 
mit him  to  speak  freely  of  his  artistic  triumphs 
abroad,  especially  during  his  tour  in  Germany. 
Of  his  great  success  there,  and  of  the  many  plau- 
dits received  from  people  in  every  station  of  life, 
the  world  already  knows ;  but  few  witnessed,  as  I 
did,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  actors  of  the  various 
supporting  companies,  when,  upon  the  fall  of  the 
curtain,  they  one  and  all  surrounded  him,  embra- 
cing him,  and  in  foreign  style  kissing  him,  and 
addressing  him  as  ''  Afcister  /  " 

I  recall  how,  at  tlie  conclusion  of  his  farewell  per- 
formance of  "King  Lear"  in  Bremen,  as  he  turned 
to  leave  the  stage,  the  entire  company  of  play- 
ers surrounded  him,  men  and  women  weeping  and 
embracing  him,  while  the  directors  read  a  compli- 


J  ,  i:i)\VIN    BOOTH 

int'ntar\-  address,  presenting  him  at  the  same  time 
with  a  silver  huirel  wreath  inscribed  with  the 
names  oi  ihc  donors,  the  actors  of  the  company. 
What  a  picture  it  was!  Lear,  standing  timidly  to 
receive  this  unexpected  tribute  of  his  genius,  al- 
most ready  to  shed  a  few  tears  himself,  in  grateful 
acknowledgment  of  such  a  genuine  outburst. 

I  have  witnessed  similar  scenes  in  nearly  every 
German  theater.  So  heartfelt  and  genuine  were 
the  expressions  of  sentiment  on  the  part  of  the 
actors,  who  followed  him  in  many  instances  to 
the  railway  stations,  cheering  and  waving  their 
adieus,  that  he  spoke  of  these  experiences  as  un- 
equaled  by  any  in  his  long  career  upon  the  stage. 

In  Vienna  the  same  enthusiasm  prevailed,  and 
he  bore  thence  his  handsomest  trophy,  a  laurel 
wreath  of  silver  and  gold,  each  leaf  bearing  the 
name  of  the  actor  that  supported  him.  He  was 
good  enough  to  present  this  to  me  on  our  return 
to  America.  This,  and  the  "Hamlet"  medal  pre- 
sented to  him  upon  the  conclusion  of  his  famous 
"one-hundred-nights"  performance  of  that  charac- 
ter, I  hold  among  my  choicest  treasures. 

Of  his  stay  abroad  he  liked  to  recall  a  morning 
at  the  residence  of  Lady  Theodore  Martin  (for- 
merly Helen  Faucit,  the  celebrated  actress),  where 
he  was  invited  to  hear  the  charming  hostess  read 
the  part  of  Beatrice  to  Mr.  Henry  Irving's  Benedict, 
before  a  distinguished  company  of  friends.  A  visit 
from  Lord  Tennyson  and  a  luncheon  at  Tennyson's 
house  in  London,  where  the  poet  praised,  above  all 
else,  his  performance  of  Lear,  which  he  had  wit- 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER 


15 


nessed  the  previous  night,  also  gave  him  great 
pleasure,  for  he  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  hav- 
ing his  Hamlet  discussed  and  lauded,  that  it  was 
a  pleasure  and  relief  to  him  when  his  other  char- 
acters were  approved  by  competent  critics. 

He  always  recalled  with  great  pleasure  an  ex- 
cursion that  he  arranged  for  me  and  the  members 
of  his  company  along  the  beach  at  Galveston, 
Texas,  in  which  city  he  was  acting  at  the  time. 
After  many  hundreds  of  miles  of  rough  and  dusty 
travel,  through  districts  flooded  in  parts  to  the 
axles  of  our  car-wheels,  it  was  a  boon  indeed  to 
escape  into  the  open  country,  and  to  breathe  pure 
air  once  more. 

On  another  occasion  during  the  same  trip  we 
drove  through  an  old  cotton-plantation  in  Alabama, 
and  were  followed  by  some  dozen  piccaninnies, 
barefooted  and  ragged,  whom  father  showered  with 
pennies,  and  whom  he  further  delighted,  I  believe, 
by  giving  passes  to  the  theater  in  Montgomery, 
where  he  was  to  act  that  night.  His  youth  seemed 
to  return  during  these  outings,  and  he  joined  in 
the  general  merrymaking  with  boyish  enthusiasm. 
After  the  continued  strain,  mental  and  physical,  of 
his  professional  labors,  he  was  inclined  to  seek  his 
amusement  where  one  would  least  expect  to  find 
him  —  at  some  good  minstrel-show,  a  circus,  or  a 
burlesque  performance.  His  enjoyment  of  Fox's 
burlesque  of  himself  as  Ilaiulct  and  Richclicti  was 
great.  Although  a  mere  child  at  the  time,  I  ac- 
companied him  to  those  clever  performances,  and 
remember  his  laughing  himself  to  tears,  and  say- 


l6 


KDWIN    ]U)OriI 


111! 


oi'  the  famous  clown-comedian,  "  He  looks 
just   like   me  !  " 

He  held  in  cfreat  esteem  his  brother-artist  and 
friend,  Tommaso  Salvini,  with  whom  he  had  acted, 
and  whose  farewell  speech  to  the  senate,  in  "Othel- 
lo," he  thought  unequaled  in  poetic  beauty  and 
musical  cadence,  and  whose  scene  with  la^-o  in 
the  third  act  he  considered  the  most  powerful  piece 
of  acting  on  our  modern  stage.  His  own  scrupu- 
lous attention  to  the  details  of  stage  business,  and 
every  significant  look  and  gesture  necessary  to 
the  better  comprehension  of  the  character  imper- 
sonated, he  saw  repeated  in  the  acting  of  this 
eenius  from  across  the  seas,  for  whom  his  artistic 
sympathies  and  admiration  were  alike  manifest. 

It  has  often  been  related  with  what  patience  and 
kindly  courteousness  he  ever  treated  his  associates 
on  the  stage,  and  I  have  never  heard  him  criticize 
harshly  the  petty  annoyances  of  theatrical  life. 

His  veneration  for  all  religious  subjects,  his  be- 
lief in  the  immortal  life,  his  practical  uses  of  the 
teachings  of  Jesus,  and  his  conviction  that  God's 
will  is  best,  never  forsook  him  even  in  the  midst 
of  his  severest  trials;  and  though  often  the  victim  of 
the  basest  deception  from  so-called  friends,  who,  in 
not  a  few  instances,  cruelly  imposed  upon  his  trust- 
ful, generous  nature,  he  remained  almost  childlike 
in  his  belief  in  the  integrity  of  others.  Later  in  life 
he  assured  me  that  he  bore  no  malice  toward  his 
would-be  detractors ;  he  had  forgiven  his  enemies. 
So  I  have  come  to  revere  the  glory  of  my  father's 
name  more  for  his  conquests  over  the  temptations 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF    MY   FATHER  1 7 

which  assailed  him  than  for  the  well-merited  suc- 
cess and  many  triumphs  of  his  artistic  career. 

His  constant  travel  and  fatigue  never  prevented 
his  writing  to  me,  a  girl  plodding  away  at  her 
lessons,  letters  full  of  interest  and  instruction. 
This  devotion  and  tender  remembrance  of  me, 
certainly  most  rare  in  a  parent  so  absorbed  in  his 
profession  as  he  was,  affects  me  now  almost  to 
tears.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  sending  me  photo- 
graphic views  of  the  many  historically  interesting 
places  he  visited,  and  upon  each  of  these  he  wrote 
a  pleasing  description  invaluable  to  me  now,  and 
an  education  to  me  then.  He  spared  himself  no 
pains  to  help  broaden  and  develop  my  ideas  when 
absent  from  him,  and  to  stimulate  my  interest  in 
my  routine  of  study. 

Little  credit  was  ever  given  to  him  for  know- 
ledge of  business  matters,  and  many  doubtless 
supposed  that  he  lacked  system ;  but  his  syste- 
matic habits  about  many  things,  the  final  arrange- 
ment of  all  his  private  papers  and  documents,  and 
his  careful  preservation  of  all  that  would  be  of 
value  to  me  hereafter,  have  proved  to  me  how 
truly  he  valued  the  maxim  that  "order  is  God's 
first  law." 

In  speaking  of  his  travels  abroad,  I  have  omitted 
to  mention  the  trip  to  Oberammergau  during  the 
Passion  Play,  whither  I  accompanied  him  in  1880. 
He  had  looked  forward  to  the  Passion  Play  with 
mingled  curiosity  and  interest,  but  he  found  it  ar- 
tificial and,  as  he  termed  it,  "too  theatrical,"  and 
greatly  bereft  of  its  former  simplicity.      In  wander- 


I  8  EDWIN    BOOTH 

iiiij-  tliroLiorh  the  little  villao^e  on  the  eve  of  the 
performance,  he  was  impressed  by  the  businesslike 
air  of  the  principal  actors,  whose  photographs 
wore  on  sale.  He  thought  it  savored  too  strongly 
of  "the  profession,"  and  he  regretted  that  things 
were  not  a  little  more  crude.  His  artistic  sense 
was  gratified,  however,  by  the  correct  and  graceful 
costuming,  and  by  the  stage  pictures,  with  the  sky, 
mountains,  and  open  fields  as  accessories.  Our 
quarters  at  Oberammergau  were  not  fine,  owing 
to  some  blunder  on  the  part  of  our  courier,  who 
lodged  us  in  a  peasant's  hut.  At  night  we  slept 
in  a  loft,  and  reposed  in  straw,  to  reach  which  we 
had  to  mount  a  step-ladder.  Uncomfortable  as 
this  experience  proved,  he  saw  only  the  humorous 
side  of  it,  and  frequently  laughed  over  it  in  after 
years. 

When  visiting  our  Boston  home,  his  sleeping- 
apartment  overlooked  the  Charles  River,  and  he 
used  to  sit  by  the  window,  watching  the  fine  sun- 
set effects  upon  the  water,  and  making  friends  with 
a  white  pigeon  that  daily  perched  upon  his  win- 
dow-sill. He  always  desired  that  our  children, 
then  small  infants,  be  brouQrht  to  his  room  each 
morning,  and  before  he  had  risen  he  would  play- 
fully fondle  "his  babies,"  as  he  lovingly  called 
them.  Later,  at  our  home  in  New  York,  he  en- 
joyed almost  daily  the  growth  and  development 
of  his  grandchildren.  To  give  me  pleasure,  also, 
he  sometimes  visited  the  theaters  with  my  hus- 
band and  me.  His  last  attendance  at  any  play 
was  at  the  Lyceum  Theater  on  April  ii,  1893,  a 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF    MY   FATHER  1 9 

week  before  his  last  illness.  The  piece  performed 
was  "The  Guardsman,"  and  in  company  with  us 
and  a  few  friends  he  occupied  a  private  box. 

Although  I  noted  with  a  pained  heart  how  great 
an  effort  it  cost  him  to  sit  through  a  performance, 
however  enjoyable,  yet  he  never  complained  of  fa- 
tigue, and  seemed  all  unconscious  that  he  was  the 
central  figure  upon  whom  the  audience  admiringly 
gazed  between  the  acts. 

The  greatness  and  depth  of  his  nature,  its  ten- 
derness and  simplicity,  were  lost  to  the  merely 
casual  observer  who  met  my  father  socially ;  for 
though  society,  in  its  conventional  sense,  was  to 
him  a  bore  and  a  waste  of  valuable  time  and  en- 
ergy, there  were  a  dozen  houses  where  he  was  a 
welcome  guest,  and  which  he  loved  to  visit.  There, 
in  the  company  of  congenial  spirits,  he  came  out 
of  his  "shell."  How  full  of  quaint  and  original 
humor  he  was,  those  who  pictured  him  only  as 
Hamlet  could  never  realize. 

It  had  long  been  his  dream  to  make  a  pilgrim- 
age to  the  grave  of  his  beloved  bard,  and  during 
his  holiday  trip  to  England  and  the  Continent  in 
18S0  and  1 88 1  he  passed  a  few  days  at  Stratford 
in  contemplation  of  all  that  was  holy  ground  to 
liim.  But,  alas  !  he  was  disappointed  to  find  him- 
self surrounded  by  curious  sight-seers  where  he 
had  hoped  to  be  alone — patriotic  worshipers  at 
his  own  shrine,  who  in  the  home  of  Shakspere 
petitioned  for  the  autograph  of  P)Ooth  ! 

I   essentially  am  not  in  madness, 
But  mad  in  craft. 


20  KDWIN    BOOTH 

Horrin  is  expressed  my  father's  solution  of  the 
••  Hamlet  mystery,"  and  I  cannot  understand  how 
aiiv  one  who  has  witnessed  his  performances  of 
tliat  character  could  question  for  a  moment  his  true 
iiUenlion  in  portraying  the  role.  Yet  the  question 
as  to  Hanilet^s  real  or  assumed  madness  he  had 
to  answer  many  times. 

1  discovered  the  above  quotation  written  by  my 
father  beneath  an  etching  of  himself  in  the  charac- 
ter with  which  he  has  become  so  widely  and  closely 
identified.  Many  have  supposed  that  because  of 
his  admirable  fitness  for  the  part  oi  Hamlet  that  it 
was  the  one  he  most  enjoyed  acting.  By  force  of 
his  own  introspective  and  melancholy  temperament 
he  was  undoubtedly  more  in  sympathy  with  Ham- 
let than  with  any  other  character  in  his  large  and 
varied  repertoire,  but  I  have  heard  him  tell  of  the 
great  relief  it  gave  him  after  a  long-continued  run 
of  that  play  to  change  the  bill  to  another.  He 
wished  to  forget  his  own  identity,  as  it  were.  In 
//am let  he  was  less  able  to  achieve  this,  so 
closely  was  it  allied  with  his  own  temperament 
and  mood. 

He  was  ever  ready  to  explain  to  me  the  subtle- 
ties of  Shaksperian  verse,  as  interpreted  by  himself, 
and  although  I  am  aware  that  others  are  far  richer 
than  I  in  the  possession  of  his  thoughts  relating  to 
the  drama,  yet  I  am  tempted  to  relate  one  or  two 
of  his  original  conceptions. 

I  recall  asking  him  to  explain  the  line  which 
/fatnlct  speaks  to  the  King  upon  his  being  sent 
into    England.      The    King    says  (Act    IV,   scene 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  21 

III),  ''So  is  it,  if  thou  knew'st  our  purposes," 
and  Hamlet  replies,  "  I  see  a  cherub  that  sees 
them,"  looking  intently  meanwhile  into  the  King's 
eye.  Therein  Hamlet  sees  his  own  face  reflected 
in  miniature,  and  my  father,  by  pointing  upward, 
with  special  stress  upon  the  word  "cherub,"  merely 
indicated  Hamlet's  preconceived  idea  of  playing  up- 
on the  King's  superstitious  fancies,  and  thus  still 
more  deeply  convincing  him  of  his  own  madness. 

My  father  had  expressed  his  belief  that  he  was 
physically  unfitted  for  the  more  robust  heroes  of 
Shaksperian  drama;  yet  his  Lear,  Othello,  and 
Macbeth  must  ever  remain  among  his  finest  and 
most  poetic  impersonations.  It  seemed  to  him 
extraordinary  that  those  three  characters  were 
specially  admired  and  applauded  by  his  critics  in 
Germany  during  his  engagements  in  that  country. 
He  was  agreeably  surprised  to  receive  the  appro- 
bation of  a  nation  accustomed  to  actors  of  large 
physique,  whose  rendering  of  these  parts  was 
necessarily   opposed    to    his. 

He  was  particularly  struck  with  the  versatility 
of  his  foreign  colleagues  in  Germany,  who  did  not 
hesitate  to  step  from  an  important  role  into  a 
lesser  one,  a  custom  in  the  stock  companies  of 
Germany.  He  believed  this  to  be  the  true  artistic 
principle  of  acting,  and  modestly  assured  me  that 
he  would  have  made  a  "dreadful  mess"  oi Horatio 
or  of  the  Ghost  if  cast  for  those  parts,  after  having 
become  so  identified  with  that  Q>i  Hamlet. 

He  considered  every  character  in  Shakspere 
worthy  of  an  artist,  and  of  his  best  efforts.    I  think 


22  EDWIN    BOOTH 

his  delineation  of  Othcllds  jealous  and  suspici- 
ous nature  raised  it  above  the  low  level,  and  at 
one  time  commonly  accepted  idea,  of  the  brutal 
blackamoor,  which  my  father  never  believed  to  be 
Shakspere's  motive.  To  comprehend  his  concep- 
tion of  the  Moor,  one  need  only  study  his  lago, 
that  "  fiend   in   human  shape." 

I  have  seen  him  alternate  these  characters  suc- 
cessively during  a  long  run  of  the  piece,  and  I 
have  thus  received  a  curiously  confused  impression 
of  his  power  to  embody  both  roles  at  one  and 
the  same  time.  The  effect  produced  by  his  acting 
of  each  was  harmonious  and  consistent,  and  yet  in 
each  he  appeared  a  being  exactly  the  opposite  of 
the  other  —  a  peculiar  proof  of  his  marvelous  ver- 
satility and  wide  range  of  power. 

I  cannot  speak  without  tears  of  the  declining 
weeks  of  his  beautiful  life  —  of  his  gentle  pa- 
tience during  his  last  illness  (of  seven  weeks'  du- 
ration), and  of  the  childlike  beauty  of  his  coun- 
tenance when  all  furrows  of  care  and  sorrow  were 
smoothed  away,  and  "  nothing  could  touch  him 
further."  His  last  coherent  words  were  addressed 
to  our  little  children,  whom  we  had  taken  to  his 
bedside  two  days  before  he  died.  My  boy  called 
gently,  "How  are  you,  dear  grandpa?"  and  the 
answer  came  loud  and  clear,  in  the  familiar,  boyish 
way,  "  How  are  you  yourself,  old  fellow?" 

As  he  lay  dying,  unconscious  even  of  my  pres- 
ence, or  of  the  fearful  electric  storm  which  was 
raging  without,  on  that  sad  afternoon  of  the 
si.xth   of  June,   a  glory  seemed    to   rest  upon   his 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  23 

loved  features,  and  I  felt,  in  spite  of  heart-breaking- 
grief,  that  he  was  at  peace.  And  when  the  dark 
curtain  of  night  had  fallen,  and  the  storm  had 
ceased  without,  and  we  sat  watchingr  and  waitino- 
for  what  we  knew  had  to  come,  we  were  startled 
by  the  sudden  going  out  of  all  the  electric  lights 
in  the  chamber  and  in  the  street  beneath.  Was 
such  darkness  ever  felt  before  ?    Alas  !  not  for  me. 

My  father's  earlier  letters  to  me,  coverings  a 
period  of  some  seven  years,  were  written  chiefly 
during  my  absence  at  a  convent  school.  Written, 
as  they  were,  during  his  long  professional  tours 
throughout  the  country,  these  letters  helped  to  lift 
me  out  of  my  narrow  sphere,  and  took  me  into  a 
new  and  broader  field,  where  my  father  was  for 
me  always  the  chief  actor,  whether  they  breathed 
of  his  professional  life,  of  his  domestic  or  social 
experiences,  or  of  loving  advice,  paternal  care,  and 
solicitude.  No  matter  how  weary,  how  irritated 
by  conditions  then  unknown  to  me,  he  was  sure 
to  send  me  weekly  missives.  Though  frequently 
expressed  in  a  humorous  vein,  in  order  to  enter- 
tain and  divert  me,  I  can  now  read  between  the 
lines,  and  appreciate  the  noble  effort  he  made  to 
throw  off  the  burdens  which  during  those  years 
must  have  bowed  him  down.  Under  the  weiofht 
of  financial  difficulties,  the  result  of  misplaced  con- 
fidence and  childlike  trust  in  others,  he  rallied 
when  his  paternal  duty  and  love  reminded  him 
of  me. 

I   have  abstained  from  publishing  more  than  a 


24  KDWIN    HOOTH 

small  fraction  of  his  entire  correspondence,  and 
offer  onl)-  such  as  will  prove  of  special  interest 
and  value  in  the  public  eye.  It  appears  to  me, 
on  re-reading  many  of  these  letters  after  a  lapse  of 
years,  that  they  present  a  side  of  my  father's  tem- 
perament and  disposition  hitherto  concealed  from 
his  friends,  as  well  as  from  the  general  public. 
They  reveal  a  depth  of  soul,  a  firmness  of  purpose, 
a  high  resolve  to  battle  against  life's  struggles, 
which  make  it  incumbent  upon  me  to  publish 
them.  They  constitute,  indeed,  a  better  and  more 
complete  autobiography  than  that  which  I  have 
in  the  past  so  often  urged  upon  him  to  write. 
I  fear  his  innate  modesty  and  reluctance  to  speak 
of  his  own  triumphs  and  misfortunes  would  have 
severely  handicapped  him  in  such  an  undertaking. 
But  his  letters  to  me,  and  to  his  many  friends, 
speak  of  him  as  he  was,  without  reserve,  or  fear 
of  harsh  criticism. 

To  these  same  valued  friends  I  am  greatly  in- 
debted for  a  large  part  of  this  correspondence, 
which  is  published  not  only  for  the  benefit  of  the 
many  who  have  known  and  revered  him  as  the 
artist  and  interpreter  of  Shaksperian  drama,  but 
as  a  tribute  of  filial  respect  and  love. 

MY    MOTHER 

As  a  necessary  accompaniment  to  these  few 
reminiscences  of  my  father,  I  will  quote  some  ex- 
tracts from  letters  written  by  my  mother  (Mary 
Devlin)   prior  to  their  marriage.     They  prove  an 


MRS.    MARV  IJHVI.IN  BOOTH. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    MY    FATHER  25 

essential  chapter  in  the  life  of  a  man  then  stepping 
into  fame  and  greatness,  and  make  more  clearly 
manifest  the  spiritual  union  of  two  sympathetic 
souls   so  soon  to  be  parted  by  death. 

My  father  has  confided  to  me  the  gentle  yet 
powerful  influence  exerted  over  his  artistic  career 
by  my  young  mother,  herself  an  actress  of  no 
mean  capacity.  Her  whole  being  became  so  cen- 
tered in  her  lover  and  husband,  her  "  Hamlet," 
as  she  so  often  called  him,  that  my  father  felt 
the  reflex  of  her  refined  intellectuality,  bodi  in 
his  art  and  in  his  attitude  toward  her  in  whom 
he  found  his  purest  and  highest  ideals  sweetly 
embodied.  Though  it  is  my  misfortune  never  to 
have  known  my  mother,  her  letters,  and  the  rec- 
ollections of  her  many  friends,  place  her  before 
me  in  the  sanctified  light  of  noble  womanhood  — 
a  faithful  wife,  a  blessed  mother. 

In   the  year   i860  she  writes: 

We  must  ever  dwell  "  above  the  thunder,"  treading  beneath 
our  feet  the  black  clouds  of  dissension.  You  are  too  great  ever 
to  descend  to  discord ;  I  have  too  high  an  appreciation  of  the 
divine  spark  God  has  gifted  you  with,  and  which  you  intrust 
to  my  care,  ever  to  cause  you  to  seek  another  sphere  than  your 
natural  one. 

The  above  extract  is  from  a  letter  written  during 
my  mother's  betrothal  to  my  father,  and  while  she 
herself  was  yet  upon  the  stage.  I  find  in  another 
letter,  dated  the  same  year,  the  following: 

Last  night  I  sat  by  the  window  thinking  of  you,  and  disturbed 
only  by  the  mournful  sighing  of  the  wind.     I  wondered  in  "this 


20  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Stillness  of  the  world  without,  ami  of  the  soul  within,"  what  our 
lives  in  the  future  woulil  be ;  and  I  looked  to  see  if  upon  the 
clouds  I  could  trace  any  semblance  of  it.  This  led  me  into  an 
Olid  train  of  thought,  in  which  I  recalled  a  susceptibility  of  yours 
you  once  told  me  of.  You  remember,  't  was  that  a  passing  wind 
sometimes  suggested  to  you  the  past,  and,  carrying  you  years 
back,  set  you  dreaming.  It  is  not  wonderful  that^i?^  should  have 
such  emotions  —  sensitive  natures  are  prone  to  them;  then  why, 
I  ask  myself,  should  my  eyes  have  filled  with  tears,  and  trembled 
lest  you  should  experience  them  again  ?  Ah,  dear  Edwin,  't  was 
a  fear  that  they  would  lead  you  from  my  side  and  leave  me  once 
more  alone.  I  am  very  wrong,  doubtless,  to  have  allowed  so 
simple  a  fact  to  impress  me,  and  am  still  more  to  blame  to 
repeat  it  here ;  for  have  you  not  "  died  into  life,"  as  Keats 
says  —  and  I  should  wean  you  from  all  remembrance  of  the 
tomb ;  and  so  I  promise  to  do. 

These  letters  were  written  by  my  mother  when 
scarcely  twenty  years  of  age.  Her  death  occurred 
three  years  afterward.  She  constantly  refers,  as 
in  the  following  passage,  to  the  sacred  mission 
she  is  about  to  fulfil  as   fiancee  and  wife : 

This  morning,  in  my  walk,  I  was  thinking  of  the  being  God 
had  given  me  to  influence  and  cherish.  For  yoii  have  ever 
seemed  to  me  like  what  Shelley  says  of  himself — "  a  phantom 
among  men  "  —  "  companionless  as  the  last  fading  storm,"  and 
yet  my  spirit  ever  seems  lighter  and  more  joyous  \vhen  with  you. 
This  I  can  account  for  only  by  believing  that  a  mission  has  been 
given  me  to  fulfil,  and  that  I  shall  be  rewarded  by  seeing  you 
rise  to  be  great  and  happy. 

Ah !  the  angels  surely  will  rejoice  in  heaven  when  that  is 
achieved.  Edwin,  I  have  never  told  you  yet,  have  I,  of  all  the 
odd  thoughts  I  have  had,  and  do  have,  about  you  ?  Well,  on 
some  of  the  days  to  come,  when  I  am  influenced  by  your  loved 
presence,  and  after  the  singing  of  some  pretty  song,  perhaps  I 
will  tell  you. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   MY   FATHER  27 

My  mother's  love  of  music,  and  her  naturally 
beautiful  voice,  ever  proved  a  delight  to  my  father, 
and  he  continued  in  later  years  to  love  the  old 
melodies  she  used  to  sing  to  him  in  the  early  days 
of  their  courtship  and  marriage. 

The  purely  unselfish  love  which  my  mother  bore 
for  my  father  is  manifested  in  her  earliest  letters  to 
him.  His  art  was  ever  the  absorbing  theme,  and 
although  so  young  herself,  she  was  capable  of  giv- 
ing him  wise  counsel  in  all  things.  She  says 
again : 

If  my  love  is  selfish,  you  will  never  be  great :  part  of  you 
belongs  to  the  world.  I  must  remember  this,  and  assist  in  its 
"  blossoming,"  if  I  would  taste  of  the  ripe  fruit.  That  will  prove 
a  rich  reward. 

The  following  extract,  written  about  i860,  shows 
how  closely  my  mother  observed  the  slightest 
changes  in  my  father's  performances.  He  has  told 
me  that  she  was  always  his  severest,  and,  there- 
fore,  his  kindest  critic. 

The  improvement  you  have  made  in  the  "  Cardinal  "  charmed 
me.  You  must  not  forget  to  tell  me  of  your  studies ;  they  in- 
terest me  alike  with  the  movements  of  your  heart  —  my  heart;  for 
't  is  mine.     Did  you  not  tell  me  so  ? 

The  conversational,  colloquial  school  you  desire  to  adopt  is 
the  only  true  one,  Edwin,  for  the  present  day;  but,  as  you  reason- 
ably add,  "  too  much  is  dangerous."  For  example.  Miss  Heron 
in  the  beginning  of  her  career  was  praised  for  her  "  naturalness," 
and  deservedly  so;  and  while  she  used  it  in  moderation  was  suc- 
rcssful.  15ut  now  could  you  see  her!  She  gives  you  too  much  of 
"  Mrs.  John  Smith,"  and  endeavors,  or  labors  rather,  to  be  so 
v'jry   commonplace  that  it  is  simply  ridiculous,  and  even  her 


2  8  EDWIN    BOOTH 

greatest  admirers  see  no  mind  in  her  now.  Acting  is  an  imi- 
tation of  nature,  is  it  not  ?  Then  't  is  art ;  and  the  art  must 
be  seen,  too,  for  nature  upon  the  stage  would  be  most  ridiculous. 
My  future  ambition  will  be  to  see  you  great  and  good,  and  if 
devotion  "of  niintl  and  intellect  (but  what  is  still  more  influential, 
an  absorbing  affection)  can  accomplish  it,  you  shall  be  everything 
that  the  world  has  predicted. 

In   referring  to   some  emotional   immoral   play 
then   in   vogue,   she   says : 

Is  it  not  outrageous  to  see  an  art  so  holy  as  the  drama  thus 
desecrated  and  perverted?  How  glad  I  am  that  the  branch 
you  were  fitted  for  has  not  been  disgraced,  for  though  unappre- 
ciated now,  the  day  will  come  when  "  gorgeous  tragedy  "  will 
have  its  sway.  You  are  held  as  its  only  true  representative  in  this 
day,  and  you  can,  if  you  will,  change  the  perverted  taste  of  the 
public  by  your  truth  and  sublimity,  and  you  must  study  for  this. 
Dear  Edwin,  I  will  never  allow  you  to  droop  for  a  single  mo- 
ment; for  I  know  the  power  that  dwells  within  your  eye,  and 
my  ambition  is  to  see  you  surrounded  by  greatness  —  is  it  not  a 
laudable  one  ?  Ah,  you  do  not  know  how  close  a  critic  I  will 
be  of  your  genius  —  a  child  who  requires  more  nursing  than 
the  helpless  babe  at  the  mother's  breast. 

It  is  a  source  of  regret  to  me  that  I  do  not  pos- 
sess a  single  letter  from  my  father  to  my  mother. 
These  he  himself  must  have  thought  best  to  de- 
stroy. In  reading  these  letters  from  my  young 
mother,  I  realize  more  fully  how  true  were  the 
words  of  her  poet  friend  and  admirer,  the  late  Dr. 
T.  W.  Parsons : 

She  was  a  maiden  for  a  man  to  love; 

She  was  a  woman  for  a  husband's  Hfe  ; 
One  that  has  learned  to  value,  far  above 

The  name  of  Love,  the  sacred  name  of  Wife. 


LETTERS  TO  HIS 
DAUGHTER 


LETTERS  TO   HIS 
DAUGHTER 


Toledo,  Sept.  28,  1869. 
My  own  dear  little  daughter: 

It  made  me  very  happy  to  receive  your  letter,  which 
grandma  forwarded  to  me  —  it  reached  me  the  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  also  the  good  report  of  you  which  your 
kind  teacher  sent  me.  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  my 
darling  again,  and  to  find  her  so  much  improved,  as  I 
know  she  will  be,  if  she  is  dutiful  in  all  things.  ...  1  am 
going  to  Detroit  in  the  morning,  to  remain  there  five  days, 
and  then  I  take  a  long  journey  —  to  Boston,  where  I  shall 
stay  four  weeks,  after  which  I  hope  to  see  my  dear  little 
daughter.  You  must  write  to  me  very  often,  and  give 
me  good  long  letters,  for  it  pleases  me  very  much  to  get 
your  little  notes,  all  of  which  I  keep,  to  show  you  some  day 
(if  the  good  Lord  wills)  when  you  are  a  woman.  I  hope 
you  take  care  of  yourself,  not  to  take  cold.  ...  I  am  glad 
your  cough  is  cured  —  be  careful.  ...  I  '11  write  you 
very  often.     Bless  you,  my  own  darling  !     Give  my  love  to 

dear  grandma  when  you  sec  her. 

Y'r  loving  papa. 

Piiii-ADKl-rillA,  October  24,  1869. 
My  beloved  daughter: 

I  '11  try  my  best  to  write  plain  for  your  special  benefit. 
But  you  see  old  pop  is  so  very  nervous  and  full  of  busi- 


32  EDWIN    BOOTH 

ncss  that  he  can't  hold  the  pen  steady  enough  to  form  the 

letters  correctly.     You  see  that  little  picture  in  the  corner 

at  the  top  ?     That  is  styled  a  monogram,  which  y'r  teacher 

will  describe  to  you,  if  you  ask  her  the  meaning  thereof, 

better  than  I  can  do  in  the  course  of  a  letter  of  so  much 

importance  as  the  present  one.     It  is  a  combination  of 

my  two  initials,  E.  &  B. — I  dare  say  you  can  guess  what 

they  stand  for.      'T  would  serve  for  your  letters  likewise, 

would  it  not?  ...  In  three  weeks  we  will  be  in  New 

York  —  that  will  be  near  Christmas  too  —  at  which  time  I 

suppose  Edwina  will  be  coming  home  for  a  holiday  to  eat 

plum-pudding  with  her  Httle  pa  n'est  pas?     That's   a 

French  pun,  which  your  French   teacher  must  explain 

—  it  's  too  hard  for  me.   ...   I  am  afraid  that  I  will  not 

have  time  to  see   my  daughter  as  I  pass  through  New 

York  this  time — I  have  so  many  things  to  attend  to  ;  but 

I  '11  soon  be  back,  and  then  for  a  kiss.  .  .  .  Write  good 

long  letters,  and  try  to  write  them  without  the  help  of 

your  teacher  or  any  one ;  you  must  learn  to  compose  as 

well  as  write  your  letters,  and  you  can  do  it  very  nicely. 

God  bless  you,  my  darling ! 

Your  loving  papa. 


Boston,  November  14,  1869. 
My  own  GIRL: 

Your  dear  letter  with  the  pretty  book-mark  ("I  love 
you")  came  safely  last  m^t,  just  in  time.  It  seems  there 
is  some  doubt  as  to  the  exact  date  of  my  arrival  here. 
Grandma  says  I  was  born  on  the  night  of  the  great  "  star 
shower"  in  1833,  and  insists  that  it  was  November  15; 
but  Uncle  June  says  he  remembers  well — both  my  birth 
and  the  "star  Shower"  occurred  on  November  13,  1833. 
So  you  see,  I  do  not  know  which  is  the  day — for,  al- 
though I  was  there,  I  was  too  young  to  pay  attention  to 


LETTERS  TO   HIS  DAUGHTER  ^;^ 

such  weighty  matters,  and  can't  remember  much  about 
it.  However,  your  Httle  present,  which  I  shall  always 
cherish,  my  darling,  came  in  good  season  for  either 
day.  ...  I  start  at  six  o'clock  this  evening  for  New 
Haven  (that  's  very  near  New  York),  where  we  shall  stay 
two  days;  then  we  visit  Worcester,  Hartford,  Springfield, 
and  other  towns,  before  we  return  home.  I  hope  to  be 
in  New  York  this  day  two  weeks.  It  is  snowing  here  to- 
day, and  it  is  very  cold.  ...  I  am  afraid  my  writing  is 
very  cramped  to-day,  as  the  pen  seems  like  a  stick  and 
my  hand  is  tired.     God  bless  you,  darling  ! 

Your  loving  papa. 


Booth's  Theatre. 

New  York,  November  15,  1871. 
My  own  dear  daughter: 

I  arrived  here  last  night  and  found  your  pretty  gift 
awaiting  me.  Your  letter  pleased  me  very,  very  much  in 
every  respect,  and  your  little  souvenir  gave  me  far  more 
delight  than  if  it  were  of  real  gold.  When  you  are  older  you 
will  understand  how  precious  little  things  —  seemingly  of 
no  value  in  themselves  —  can  be  loved  and  prized  above 
all  price  when  they  convey  the  love  and  thoughtfulness 
of  a  good  heart.  This  little  token  of  your  desire  to  please 
me,  my  darling,  is  therefore  very  dear  to  me,  and  I  will 
cherish  it  as  long  as  I  live.  If  God  grants  me  so  many 
years  I  will  show  it  you  when  you  are  a  woman,  and  t/ien 
you  will  appreciate  my  preference  for  so  little  a  thing, 
made  by  you,  to  anything  money  might  have  bought. 
God  bless  you,  my  darling ! 

I  am  going  to  see  grandma  to-day  as  soon  as  I  get 
through  my  letters. 

Uncle  Joe  went  on  to  Baltimore  the  other  day  to  see 


34  EDWIN   BOOTH 

about  selling  grandma's  farm  '  (the  place  where  your  old 
pap  was  born).   .    .    . 

God  bless  you  again  and  again  ! 

Your  lovinw  father. 


Booth's  Theatre. 

New  York,  February  5,  1872. 
My  dear  daughter: 

...  I  have  been  learning  to  skate,  but  I  make  a  poor 
"  foot"  at  it.  When  I  was  a  little  boy  I  had  no  opportunity 
to  learn  the  different  games  and  sports  of  childhood, 
for  I  was  traveling  most  of  the  time,  spending  my  winters 
in  the  South,  where  they  have  no  sleighing  or  skating. 
You  must  learn  —  for  the  exercise  is  very  healthful,  and 
a  great  many  ladies  and  little  girls  skate  here  on  the  Park 
lake  every  day  in  winter. 

I  am  very  anxious  that  you  should  improve  and  become 
a  good  scholar,  and  to  make  me  happy  you  must  bear 
this  in  mind  and  not  waste  a  moment  of  the  time  which 
is  now  so  precious  to  you.  See  if  you  cannot  astonish 
me  when  I  see  you  next  month.    .    .    . 

Your  affectionate  father. 


Cedar  Cliff,  Cos  Cob,  December  8,  1872. 
My  dear  eleven-year-old  darling: 

I  arrived  here  yesterday  —  went  to  the  city  to  attend 
to  business  and  returned  last  night.  In  the  morning 
(your  birthday)  we  start  for  Trenton,  half-way  to  Philadel- 
phia, where  I  act  two  nights,  and  shall  be  traveling  about 
until  the  day  you  come  to  us  for  the  holidays.  While  in 
town  yesterday  I  left  to  be  engraved  and  to  be  sent  by 
express  to  you  a  birthday  gift — a  ruby  ring.      Now  that 

1  Belair,  Maryland. 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  35 

you  are  nearing  your  teens  and  getting  fast  on  towards 
yoimg-\&.^y\svi\ — quite  out  of  the  range  oi  dolls  and  toys, 
we  must  begin  to  replenish  your  stock  of  jewelry,  I 
suppose,  and  this  ring  must  begin  it.  Accept  it  as  my 
dear  love-greeting,  with  the  heartfelt  prayers  and  wishes 
for  many,  many  happy  returns  of — to-morrow.  Your 
pocket-money  will  commence  also.  God  grant,  my  dar- 
ling child,  that  your  life  may  be  good  and  happy,  and  that 
as  you  grow  in  years  your  determination  to  do  right  will 
increase  in  strength.  I  have  promised  that  we  will  dine 
with  the  Thompsons  on  Christmas  eve,  and  with  grand- 
ma on  Christmas  day.  We  shall  pass  some  of  the  time  here 
in  packing  trunks  for  our  trip  to  the  West.  Joe  has  just 
telegraphed  me  that  one  of  my  actors,  named  Pike,  died 
yesterday  —  he  acted  and  I  shook  hands  with  him  at  four 
, o'clock.  Think  how  near  the  other  world  we  tread  ! 
We  are  always  walking  along  the  narrow  edge  that  di- 
vides ours  from  it.  I  have  written  very  badly,  and  I  ought 
to  be  made  to  rewrite  it,  but  as  my  fingers  are  very  stiff, 
I  '11  send  it  as  it  is.  Love  and  kisses,  with  birthday 
wishes,  Your  papa. 


Chicago,  March  2,  1873. 

My   dear   big  DAUGHTER  : 

Your  last  letter  was  very  jolly,  and  made  me  most 
happy.  Pip  (the  dog)  is  yelping  to  write  to  you,  and  so 
is  your  little  brother,  St.  Valentine,  the  bird ;  but  I 
greatly  fear  they  will  have  to  wait  another  week,  for,  you 
know,  I  have  to  hold  the  pen  for  them,  and  I  have  written 
so  many  letters,  and  to-day  my  hand  is  tired. 

Don't  you  think  it  jollier  to  receive  silly  letters  some- 
times than  to  get  a  repetition  of  sermons  on  good  be- 
havior? It  is  because  I  desire  to  encourage  in  you  a 
vein  of  pleasantry,  which  is  most  desirable  in  one's  corrc- 


36  EDWIN   BOOTH 

spondencc,  as  well  as  in  conversation,  that  I  put  aside  the 
stern  old  father y  and  p\a.y  papa  now  and  then. 

When  I  was  learning  to  act  tragedy,  I  had  frequently 
to  perform  comic  parts,  in  order  to  acquire  a  certain 
ease  of  manner  that  my  serious  parts  might  not  appear 
too  stilted  ;  so  you  must  endeavor  in  your  letters,  in  your 
conversation,  and  your  general  deportment,  to  be  easy  and 
natural,  graceful  and  dignified.  But  remember  that  dig- 
nity does  not  consist  of  overbecoming  pride  and  haughti- 
ness ;  self-respect,  politeness,  and  gentleness  in  all  things 
and  to  all  persons  will  give  you  sufficient  dignity.  Well, 
I  declare,  I  've  dropped  into  a  sermon,  after  all,  have  n't 
I  ?  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  have  to  let  Pip  and  the  bird  have 
a  chance,  or  else  I  '11  go  on  preaching  till  the  end  of 
my  letter.  You  must  tell  me  what  you  are  reading 
now,  and  how  you  progress  in  your  studies,  and  how 
good  you  are  trying  to  be.  Of  that  I  have  no  fear.  I 
doubt  if  I  shall  get  to  Philadelphia  in  June ;  so  do  not 
expect  me  until  school  breaks  up,  and  then — "hey  for 
Cos  Cob  "  and  the  fish-poles  !  When  I  was  last  there  the 
snow  was  high  above  our  knees,  and  it  was  very  cold; 
but  still  I  liked  it  better  than  the  city.  Poor  Mr.  Joyce 
died  soon  after  Mr.  Fenno's  death.  Nearly  all  my 
company   have    been    ill  this    season. 

Love  and  kisses  from  Y'r  grim  old  father. 

\^At  (he  top  of  original  letter  tny  father  drew  a  small  figure  of  a  canary  bird.'\ 

St.  Valentine's  Day,  Feb.  14,  1874. 

Tweet,  tweet,  how  d'  ye  do  ?  Maybe  you  don't 
know  me  —  I  'm  Val :  papa  calls  me  Tiny,  for  short, 
'cause  I  'm  short.  I  'm  a  bir-r-r-r-d  —  a  Ka-noory 
bir-r-r-d ;  and  I  'm  yaller,  with  dark  spots  here  and 
there;  I  forget  just  where,  'cause  I  ain't  got  no  looking- 
glass,  but  I  've  heard  'em  say  I  've  got  dark  spots,  and 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  '^'] 

so,  I  've  heard  too,  has  the  sun,  and  the  sun  's  yaller  too, 
ain't  it  ?  I  have  the  nicest  seed  you  ever  seed  !  Papa 
whistles  to  me.  Tweet,  tweet,  I  'rn  a  jolly  little  yaller 
boy,  and  my  name  's  St.  Valentine.  Perhaps  you  don't 
know  I  'm  your  brother  ?  Yes,  I  am,  and  Pip  is  my  other 
sister  —  so  are  you  —  my  otherest  one.  I  don't  like 
Pip.  She  's  a  dorg,  and  she  snarls,  and  wakes  me  up,  and 
sits  on  her  hind  legs,  and  thinks  she  looks  like  me,  'cause 
she  's  got  a  dark  spot  all  over  her  body,  and  has  a  few 
dirty  kind  of  yallerish  spots  on  her  feet  and  things  ;  but 
she  ain't  —  she  's  a  dorg,2^\6.  I  'm  a  bir-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r- 
r-rud  !  tweet,  tweet,  tweet ! 

Good-bye  / 

"  Bow  !  yow  !  now  !  don't !  Papa  is  pinching  my  un- 
fortunate tail !  I  do  lead  the  life  of  a  dorg.  What  with 
papa's  pinching  and  M — 's  pianering  and  singing  (and  you 
know  that  almost  gives  me  hydrophobia  !),  to  say  nothing 
of  that  ugly,  little,  yaller,  two-legged  chicken  in  the  cage — 
I  mean  St.  Valentine  —  I  don't  get  a  moment's  sleep  !  But 
you  just  wait  till  papa  takes  off  his  boots  —  then  won't  I 
go  for  his  toes  !  Oh,  no  !  only  wait !  Ain't  it  jolly  not  to 
go  to  school!  My!  don't  you  wish  you  was  a — purp? 
Then  you  'd  be  punished,  and  would  n't  go  to  school,  too. 
Papa  says  my  letter  ain't  half  as  good  as  Val's  —  I  hate 
Val !  I  hate  birds  and  chickens,  anyhow — 'cept  when 
they're  cooked  —  then  yow!  yow!  don't  I  loves 'em  ! 
When  I  was  at  Long  Branch  I  used  to  sneak  behind  the 
barn  and  chew  'cm  ;  killed  several,  and  then  got  licked  ! 
Yow  !  did  n't  it  make  my  fur  fly  !  But  I  yelped  a  good 
deal  more  'n  it  liurt,  just  to  skcer  M — ,  who  begged 
pop  not  to  whack  mc  any  more.  Now,  whenever  dad 
takes  mc  up  by  the  tail  and  lathers  mc  for  being  naughty, 
I  just  yelp  and  yow  !  wow  !  till  the  fire-bells  ring,  and 
tliat  skccrs  'em;   then  I  'm    let  off  till  next  time.      IIow 

3* 


00D50 


38  EDWIN    BOOTH 

docs  you  get  it  ?  So  ?  If  you  do,  just  yelp.  I  know  I  'm 
going  to  ketch  it  for  not  writinij  a  better  letter,  but  my 
nose  is  out  of  joint  now,  and  that  yaller-backcd  bird  gets 
all  the  sugar.  I  can't  do  anything  right  any  more,  while 
Master  Val  chirps  and  tweet,  tweets  without  a  scold.  I  'm 
getting  orful  tired  of  playin'  dorg;  't  ain't  funny  any  more. 
I  don't  like  sitting  on  two  legs,  and  made  to  shut  up 
every  time  I  want  to  express  my  feelings.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  '11  stop  drinking  water,  and  'make  believe'  I  Ve  got 
the  'phoby,'  and  bite  the  bird  ;  then  they  '11  kill  it,  and  /  '// 
eat  it  —  and  then  come  to,  and  larf  at  'em  !  Sometimes 
they  has  br'iled  birds  for  dinner —  then  I  gets  the  bones ; 
but  they  takes  all  the  bird  off  though — 'fore  /  gets  'em  ! 
Outch  !  Yow  !  Here  comes  daddy's  boot !  Good  night. 
Ki-i-ki-i-ki-yow  !  !  !  !  ! 

\_rictiire  of  dog.  "^ 

This  is  me. 

Pip. 


Cincinnati,  April  28,  1874. 

,  .  .  Are  you  aware  that  this  is  your  "  salary-day  "  ? 
The  "  ever- welcome  "  is  herein  conveyed  to  you,  with 
many  blessings  and  lots  of  love  from  "  da-da."  Not  hear- 
ing anything  to  the  contrary,  I  take  it  for  granted  that 
the  good  Lord  has  restored  my  darling's  health,  and  that 
she  is  "  Richard  's  himself  again,"  and  ready,  not  for  a 
fray,  but  for  a  laugh.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  of  our  visit  while 
in  Louisville  to  the  orphan  asylum ;  it  was  very  agree- 
able, but  rather  comical.  You  know  I  don't  like  to  make 
speeches ;  President  Grant  and  I  are  much  alike  in  that 
particular,  as  we  are  likewise  in  the  matter  of  smoking. 
Well,  when  we  arrived  at  the  asylum  we  were  ushered 
into  the  school-room,  where  several  gentlemen  and  as 
many  matrons  and  other  ladies  were  assembled,  while  a 


LETTERS    TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  39 

crowd  of  about  one  hundred  and  eighty  children  —  girls 
and  boys — many  with  extremely  untidy  noses  and  quiz- 
zical faces,  set  up  a  yell  of  "  Walecoom !  Weelcoom  ! 
Weelcum  !  "  to  a  lively  air,  and  about  eighteen  hundred 
and  sev^enty-four  verses.  Then  they  "  spoke  "  speeches 
of  welcome  in  all  its  varied  varieties  of  intonation;  then 
they  sang  again,  and  after  all  presented  your  "poor- 
old-half-scared-out-of-his-wits  "  papa  with  bouquets  of 
flowers,  and  a  picture  of  the  asylum  —  from  the  children, 
and  so  forth.  All  this  was  very  jolly,  but  afterward  / 
had  to  respond,  of  course ;  and  there  I  stood  on  a  plat- 
form, making  vain  attempts  to  talk  "goody  "  to  the  poor 
little  creatures,  who  did  n't  pay  the  least  attention  to  my 
eloquent  remarks,  but  gaped,  and  showed  unmistakable 
signs  of  "  wishing  dinner  was  ready,"  while  several  little 
tots  fell  fast  asleep.  This  description  is  of  course  not  half 
so  entertaining  as  were  the  noses  and  the  queer  eyes  and 
the  general  "make-up  "  of  the  precious  "cherubs,"  and  the 
vocal  displays  in  honor  of  your  dad's  arrival.  Now,  my 
little  girl,  I  have  nearly  finished  my  letter  with  chat  — 
hoping  you  will  enjoy  it,  and  send  me  in  return  a  good  long 
letter  written  in  French,  as  of  old,  to  "  mon  cher  papa,*' 
assuring  me  that  you  are  well  and  good  and  happy.  The 
weeks  are  swiftly  passing  into  the  "  long  ago,"  and  I  will 
soon,  God  willing,  be  with  you.  I  send  a  heart  full  of 
love  and  tenderness  for  my  "little  girlie." 

Your  loving  father. 


Ced.vr  Cliff,  Cos  Coh,  November  15,  1874. 

.  .  .  The  slipper-case  is  lovely,  and  you  calculated 
perfectly  the  length  of  my  "  footsy-tootsy."  Many  thanks, 
my  darling;  but  "  ou  "  is  the  French  letter  I  am  looking 
eagerly  for.    .    .    .     Grandma   insists  that  to-day  (15th) 


40 


KDWIN    1500TH 


is  my  birtlulay,  in  spite  of  all  authority  which  places  the 
"star  shower"  November  13,  1833;  consequently  she 
celebrates  to-da\-  in  in\-  honor.  I  am  a  year  older  than 
when  I  wrote  you  last,  and  yet  it  seems  but  a  week  ago. 
Ilmv  Tempus  does  fut^it  ! 

Ciod  bless,  you  ilarlin-;  !     Be  good  and  diligent. 

Your  papa. 


Baltimore,  February  14,  1875. 

Dearest  little  daughter  mine, 

This  being  the  silly  rhymsters'  season, 

So,   I  think,  a  sufficient  reason 

For  me  to  jingle  you  a  line ; 

Nor  can   "Superior"  think  it  treason  — 

Surely,   't  is  no  fault  of  thine 

If  papa  plays  "  Sir  Valentine." 

I  won't  run  into  rhapsody, 

Setting  your  noddle  in  a  whirl 

By  styling  you  my  "  precious  pearl," 

But  like  a  plain  "  old  nobody," 

Just  say,  "  I  love  my  little  girl," 

Without  regard  to  prosody. 

And  thus  defy  all  parody. 

For  none  can  find  in  such  a  line 
(Although  my  jingles  are  so  crude), 
For  ridicule  one  grain  of  food, 
Tho'  they  may  laugh  at  my  poor  rhyme. 
Well,  let  them  laugh  ;  while  she  is  good 
My  little  daughter  shall  be  mine  — 
And  I  '11  be  her  "old  Valentine." 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  4I 

Boston,  March  28,  1875. 

My  dear  "EASTER  EGG": 

Did  you  get  it  ? 

Let  me  tell  you,  miss,  that  your  sarcasmly  remarks 
about  my  little  pipe  have  had  a  very  terrible  effect  on 
your  antique  parent;  I  really  believe  I  have  not  smoked 
more  than  once  since — dinner,  and  all  because  you  com- 
plained of  my  fragrant  epistle. 

The  dates,  figs,  and  oranges  were  ordered  to  be  de- 
livered to  you  not  by  "  that  dear  good  man  who  smokes 
so  much";  so  you  see  that  H —  put  the  shoe  on  the 
wrong  foot :  in  other  words,  he  did  "  fig-et "  he  was  out 
of  "date."  We  have  got  some  wee  little  squabby  pig- 
eons.    What  a  pie  there  '11  be  some  day,  somewhere ! 

God  bless  you,  darling !     Love  and  kisses  from 

Pop. 


Cos  Cob,  May  30,  1875. 
My  dearly  beloved  little  "rag": 

You  say  in  your  last  that  you  have  h^^n  feeling  so  like 
one  that  I  presume  it  is  but  fair  to  humor  your  feelings 
in  your  (then)  present  distress.  If  your  climate  becomes 
much  more  sultry  we  must  wring  you  out.  .  .  .  Apropos 
of  your  "Spelling  Bee  "  and  the  prize,  you  say  you  do  not 
like  suspense.  No  more,  my  child,  does  a  man  while  hang- 
ing ;  but  patience  is  necessary,  my  dear,  to  success  in  every- 
thing. We  can't  jump  into  glory  with  a  skipping-rope ; 
wc  must  walk  very  slowly  and  carefully,  too,  else  we  '11 
"stump  our  toeses " :  therefore  be  patient,  and  endure 
suspense  heroically,  and  if  the  prize  is  not  won,  endure 
the  disappointment  with  patience  still.  It  will  surely  be 
yours  some  day — after  the  Lord  has  proved  you  worthy 
through  these  little  trials.      I  am  glad  you  feel  so  much 


42  EDWIN   BOOTH 

interest  in  tiicsc  competitions;  it  stirs  up  your  energy 
aiul  ambition.  Never  let  them  flag,  but  keep  straight  on 
and  upward,  just  as  your  dear  mother  did. 

To  change  the  theme — you  say  you  played  three  times, 
and  that  there  were  four  pianos!  Did  you  play  on  all 
four  (I  don't  mean  "  all  fours  ")  at  the  same  time,  three 
times  ?  Whew  !  Golly,  what  a  girl !  You  must  certain- 
ly be  a  female  Briareus.  .  .  .  Much  of  my  life's  strug- 
gle has  been  with  myself,  and  the  pain  I  have  endured  in 
overcoming  and  correcting  the  evils  of  my  untrained  dis- 
position has  been  very  great ;  .  .  .  Bear  charity  in  your 
thoughts,  love  in  your  heart  for  all. 

"  Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace. 
To  silence  envious  tongues," 

says  Shakspere,  who  says  scarcely  anything  that  is  not 
true  and  good.  .  .  . 

It  's  difficult  for  me  to  keep  my  wits  "on  edge"; 
they  're  very  blunt.  When  your  heart  jumped  into  your 
throat,  and  you  heard  it  beat,  and  saw  the  paper  shake, 
you  had  what  actors  call  "  stage  fright."  It  's  very  ter- 
rible, but  after  a  little  experience  it  will  not  come  again. 
I  always  have  it,  though,  when  I  sing.  By  the  by,  I  have 
seen  silver  threads  among  the  black,  but  have  not  heard 
the  song  you  mention. 

Good  night,  darling.     God  bless  you  ! 

Papa. 


Cos  Cob,  June  2,  1875. 
Beloved  Chicken: 

That  is  what  you  prefer,  it  seems.  Pardonnez  papa, 
pour  oublier  les  .  .  .  dollairs.  I  have  been  so  long  a 
bankrupt  that  I  really  forgot  that  I  had  any  assets  or 
"cash  on   hand,"    and   your  "pin-money "  quite    "  dis- 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  43 

solved  "  from  my  "  intellex."  If  you  '11  forgive  the  poor, 
forgetful  old  gentleman  this  time,  he  won't  do  so  not  no 
more.  Is  my  grammar  quite  correct  ?  Speaking  of  gram- 
mar, this  xsgrajnas  birthday — seventy-one!  I  sent  her 
a  very  pretty  little  straw  basket  filled  with  lovely  roses 
(very  tiny — a  French  rose);  we  have  some  white  ones  un- 
der our  parlor  window.  The  basket  also  contained  pansies, 
smilax,  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  so  forth.  It  was  very 
pretty,  and  pleased  grandma  very  much.  She  looked 
and  felt  in  good  health  and  spirits.  .  .  .  You  say  I  have 
not  written  to  you  lately.  Goody  !  Gracious  me  !  Oh, 
my  !  I  've  been  doing  nothing  elser  these  parst  several 
weeks !  One  of  us  has  been  dreaming,  maybe.  This  is 
merely  a  scratch  of  the  pen  to  keep  the  .  .  .  dollars 
company,  and  to  say  God  bless  my  daughter. 

Papa. 


Nov.  7,  1875. 
My  dear  daughter: 

It  is  now  nearly  midnight, —  "  when  half  the  world  is 
in  a  solemn  darkness  hung,"  as  King  Dick  says  when  the 
ghosts  come  after  him  at  Bosworth  Field.  .  .  .  The  sepa- 
ration from  you  is  necessarily  hard,  but  I  solace  myself 
that  the  time  will  soon  slip  by,  and  we  shall  be  looking 
back  at  "  now  "  as  only  a  little  while  ago,  and  that  then, 
if  we  are  good,  or  strive  to  be  so,  we  shall  enjoy  a  good 
long  holiday  trip  together.  This  is  the  way  we  must 
look  at  all  our  crosses  and  disappointments  ;  this  is  the 
secret  of  my  being  able  to  withstand  the  many  misfor- 
tunes I  have  had.  Then  these  mishaps  become  real 
helps  to  us  when  good  fortune  comes :  they  strengthen 
us  to  bear  becomingly  and  with  grateful  hearts  that  which 
might  make  us  selfishly  forgetful  of  Him  from  whom  all 


44  EDWIN   BOOTH 

blessings  come.  So,  "be  a  man,"  and  sing  instead  of 
crying.  Be  careful  of  your  health,  and  cultivate  all  that 
is  bright  and  joyous  in  your  nature,  so  that  we  may  chirp 
all  the  way  to  California,  like  little  chippy-birds — especi- 
ally inc. 

.  .  .  Gifts  are  valued  (or  should  be)  for  the  givers'  sake, 
not  for  their  own,  and  a  simple  flower  often  conveys  more 
pleasure  to  the  recipient  than  a  costly  present,  if  given 
with  feeling  and  at  the  proper  time. 

Since  my  tobacco-scented  letters  brings  me  so  near  to 
you,  this  is  a  strong  argument  in  favor  of  my  naughty 
habit  of  smoking,  so  I  '11  stick  to  pipe  and  "  baccy."  My 
engagement  begins  to-morrow  in  Richard  II. 


New  York,  Nov.  14,  1875. 

.  .  .  My  forty- second  birthday  (yesterday)  was  passed 
(day  and  evening)  in  the  theatre,  with  RicJielieu  and  Shy- 
lock,  two  weary  old  boys.  I  hoped  to  have  photos  taken 
in  Richard  II.,  the  costumes  are  so  beautiful,  and  your 
pop  appears  as  a  blond  in  that  character ;  I  will  give  it 
in  Phil'*,  so  that  you  shall  have  a  chance  to  behold  my 
flaxen  curls.  You  must  read  that  portion  of  English  his- 
tory, so  as  to  be  a  little  familiar  with  the  tragedy.  My 
friends  are  enthusiastic  over  my  performance  of  it.  My 
engagement  is  very  fine,  and  could  be  extended  here,  did 
I  not  wish  to  be  with  you  as  soon  as  possible.  .  .  . 


Richmond,  Va.,  Jan.,  1876. 

'T  was  in  this  city,  darling,  just  twenty  years  ago, 
that  I   first  met  your  angel  mother,  who  now  watches 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  45 

over  and  prays  for  us  in  heaven.  Twenty  years  make 
a  large  gap  in  one's  lifetime,  yet  they  slip  away  very 
quickly,  and  when  gone  we  wonder  how  little  we  have 
accomplished  in  so  long  a  time.  Be  sure  that  you  do 
not  waste  a  day,  that  you  may,  twenty  years  hence,  feel 
the  gratification  of  having  accomplished  much  good 
since  now.  My  last  visit  here  was  seventeen  years  ago 
(before  you  knew  me),  and  the  people  are  greatly  excited 
over  my  coming.  Your  grandfather  Booth  was  much 
beloved  here,  and  made  his  first  appearance  (in  1821) 
before  an  American  audience  in  this  city.  You  see,  I 
have  cause  to  feel  much  interest  in  Richmond.  .  .  . 
Thoughtfulness  is  a  virtue  you  must  strive  to  cultivate ; 
an  anxious  care  for  the  feelings  of  others  is  produc- 
tive of  much  happiness  to  ourselves  as  well  as  to  those  for 
whom  we  make  the  trifling  sacrifice  of  a  moment's  com- 
fort.    Tom   Hood  says : 

There  's  much  harm  wrought 

By  want  of  thought 

As  there  is  by  want  of  heart, 

or  something  to  this  effect;  my  memory  retains  merely 
the  idea  and  jingle  of  the  rhyme ;  the  words  may  be  dif- 
ferently set.  It  is  surprising  how  happy  we  feci  when  we 
have  caused  ever  so  little  happiness  in  others.  "  Love 
thyself  last,"  Shakspere  says,  and  what  he  says  is  about 
as  full  of  solid  sense  as  any  advice  which  man  can 
give. 


Nashville,  Feb.  27,  1876. 

Yesterday  I  climbed  to  the  top  of  Lookout 
Mountain,  and  had  magnificent  views,  far  and  wide,  of 
miles   of  surrounding  country.     Much  of  my  trip  has 


^O  EDWIN   BOOTH 

been  tlHoui^h  battle-fields,  where  are  still  to  be  seen  the 
remnants  of  earth- works,  etc.,  thrown  up  by  the  Con- 
federates. The  country  all  iibout  us  shows  the  sad 
cftects  o(  war.  altho'  ten  years  have  passed  in  peace  since 
then.  Vou  shoiikl  sec  the  crowds  of  idle  gapers  that 
throng  the  depots  at  my  arrival,  and  the  swarms  of  fe- 
males (they  can't  be  called  "  ladies ")  that  crowd  the 
hotel  halls  and  parlors  in  every  place.  It  is  unpleasant 
for  me,  who  hate  notoriety  and  publicity.  They  point 
at  and  touch  me,  exclaiming  to  one  another,  "That  's 
him  !  "  "  That  's  Booth  !  "  To-day  they  tried  to  get  on 
the  carriage  that  brought  me  to  the  hotel.  Policemen 
had  to  keep  the  crowds  back  for  me  to  pass  through. 
I  suppose  they  mean  it  all  in  kindness,  but  it  is  very 
disagreeable.  The  night  I  arrived  in  Chattanooga  I  was 
surrounded  by  a  "scheechy"  band.  I  tell  you,  I  was 
frightened !  I  should  have  made  a  speech  and  asked 
them  to  take  a  glass  of  wine,  but  I  did  n't ;  I  made  the 
hotel  proprietor  thank  them  for  me.  .   .  , 


Louisville,  March  12,  1876. 

...  I  must  tell  you  of  our  ride  from  Mammoth 
Cave,  that  "  big  hole  in  the  ground."  I  shall  try  to 
relate  the  wonders  I  heard  in  the  cavern,  and  describe 
our  jog  over  the  stones  through  the  forest.  Our  guide 
was  a  bright  young  colored  chap,  who  produced  by  his 
imitations  of  dogs,  cows,  etc.,  some  fine  effects  of  ven- 
triloquism on  our  way  through  the  cave.  In  pointing 
out  to  us  a  huge  stone  shaped  like  a  coffin  he  would  re- 
mark: "  Dis  is  de  giant's  coff-in";  then,  taking  us  to  the 
other  dilapidated  side  of  it:  "Dis  is  what  he  coughed 
out."  Then  we  reached  what  they  call  down  there 
"The    Altar,"    where    some    foolish    folk   were   married 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  47 

once  upon  a  time.  "  De  young  lady  swore  she  nebber 
would  marry  any  man  on  the  face  ob  the  earth,  so  she 
came  down  yer  and  got  married  under  de  face  ob  de 
earth,  'Spec'  she  wanted  materomony  inter  de  groun'." 
Then  he  would  cry  out,  "  Hi !  John  !  "  and  we  could  hear 
the  echo,  as  we  thought,  far  away ;  then  he  would  strike 
the  ground  with  his  staff,  and  we  could  hear  a  loud, 
reverberating  sound,  as  tho'  all  beneath  were  hollow, 
though  when  any  of  us  tried  it,  no  sound  would  come.  He 
had  finally  to  own  up  that  he  was  both  cause  and  effect. 

Frequently  we  found  in  different  chambers  in  the  cave 
crystallizations  hanging  from  the  rocky  ceilings  called 
"  stalactites,"  and  others  rising  from  the  ground  directly 
beneath  them,  reaching  up  and  often  joining  the  ones 
from  above,  and  forming  a  solid  pillar  from  floor  to  roof; 
these  latter  are  called  "stalagmites."  William,  our 
guide  (very  serious  all  the  time),  remarked  that  "  De 
upper  ones  was  called  ?,id\diC-tite  'cause  dey  stuck  light 
to  de  roof,  and  de  odder  ones  stalag-mite  —  cause  dejy 
might  reach  the  upper  ones,  and  den  again  dey  might 
nt."  A  facetious  and  comical  darky,  truly!  One  of 
these  columns,  or  pillars,  had  a  sort  of  knob  on  it  shaped 
like  a  fat  dumpling  face,  which  is  named  here  "  Lot's 
Wife."  William  said,  "And  she  has  n't  done  poutin' 
about  it  yet."  So  we  went  laughing  at  his  weak  jokes; 
for  it  was  funny  to  us  actors  to  see  this  fellow  throwing 
his  wit  at  us,  and  our  appreciation  of  his  acting  made 
him  very  happy.  I  think  I  have  already  written  about 
the  pretty  little  bats  that  hang  about  the  walls  and  roof 
of  the  cave  in  clusters,  with  heads  down  and  mouths  wide 
open,  as  if  laughing  in  childish  glee  at  the  fun  they  are 
having  in  playing  "  upside  down."  As  the  road  from  the 
cave  to  the  station  was  too  rough  and  shaky  for  a  car- 
riage, I  ordered  two  horses,  the  pokiest  old  pacers  that 
could  be  obtained.   .   .   .   Away  we  went  (M —  and  I)  at 


48  EDWIN   BOOTH 

the  rate  of  at  least  an  inch  a  minute,  through  the  forest, 
towards  the  station,  as  we  supposed.  Being  told  there 
were  no  other  roads,  and  to  leave  the  choice  to  our 
horses  if  we  became  confused,  we  felt  secure.  We  had 
ridden  about  two  miles  when  we  concluded  there  were  a 
great  many  xvide  paths  resembling  roads  so  closely  that 
it  would  be  well  to  leave  the  choice  of  one  to  our  nags, 
who  were  traveling  it  daily.  We  did  so,  and  of  course 
the  brutes  took  us  far  out  of  the  way,  into  the  forest. 
Going  to  the  right,  of  course  they  went  wrong;  the  road 
^\'e  left  was  right :  so  we  got  mixed. 

Three  miles  farther  the  road  disappeared,  so  we  went 
back  to  the  fork  where  wc  first  diverged,  and  followed 
the  original  path.  Finally  we  smelt  supper  afar  off, 
just  as  the  war-horse  snififs  the  battle,  so  our  "  make- 
believe  "  chargers  sniffed  their  oats.  We  arrived  at 
supper-time,  and  when  I  was  asked  how  I  felt  after  my 
"  ride  a  slow  horse  to  Cranberry  Cross,"  I  remarked,  in 
mournful  numbers,  "  I  feel  sore-\y  for  it."  We  had 
ridden  about  fourteen  miles  over  the  roughest,  hardest 
stones,  up  hill  and  down  dale.   .   .   . 

Do  not  be  discouraged  because  you  find  your  know- 
ledge less  as  you  grow  older ;  it  will  be  so  until  you  give 
up  the  great  riddle  of  life,  and  cease  to  guess  at  it,  tho' 
you  live  to  the  age  of  Methuselah.  I  have  only  just  dis- 
covered that  I  know  infinitely  less  than  nothing.  So  do 
all  at  forty,  unless  they  are  fools.  We  all  must  live  and 
learn  or  loaf  and  lose  (that  word  "  loaf,"  however,  is  a 
vulgarism,  used  here  only  for  the  sake  of  alliteration ;  do 
not  use  it).  You  know  I  have  acted  Hamlet  for  many 
years,  and  many  hundred  times.  Well,  I  am  just  learn- 
ing many  things  that  were  hidden  all  this  while  in  the 
obscurity  of  its  wonderful  depths  of  thought ;  so,  when 
you  are  ;^65  years  old,  you  will  give  up  guessing  "  what 
it  's  all  about,  anyhow."  ...   As  for  what  you  say  about 


EDWIN    BOOTH    IN    1852. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  49 

your  not  being  patient  when  sick,  why  are  not  all  patients 
sick,  and  all  sick  people  patients  ? 


Shakspere's  Birthday,  April  23,  1876. 
My  darlingabus  daughterius: 

Meus  am  not  muchabus  in  Latin,  butere  ego  amo  to 
scribet  in  lingo  classical,  ergo  ego  scribbleus  thisabus 
replicationem  in  Latinibus  exempli  gratia,  which,  the 
malum  inse,  is  a  very  magnum  opus  for  tuum  Pop. 
Yuum  mustus  ergo  beum  semper  paratus  tomeum  en- 
courageum  in  scribet  verbatim  et  literatim,  in  lingo  Lati- 
num  et  Frenchium.     Oh  !  Jam  satis. 

And  therefore  I  will  descend  to  vulgar  Saxon.  I  dare 
say,  between  us,  we  could  jabber  in  hog-Latin,  pigeon- 
English,  and  fishy  French,  to  the  utter  confusion  of  all 
the  savans  and  linguists  of  the  schools  ;  but  it  's  jolly 
hard  work,  this  brushing  up  of  one's  buried  and  moldy 
accomplishments. 

When  I  was  at  Eton  (I  don't  refer  now  to  the  dinner- 
table)  my  Greek  and  Latin  were  of  such  a  superior  qual- 
ity that  had  it  not  been  for  an  unforeseen  accident  I  would 
have  carried  off  all  the  honors.  The  accident  lay  in  this : 
I  never  went  to  school  there  except  in  dreams.  "  How 
often,  oh  !  how  often  "  have  I  imagined  the  delights  of  a 
collegiate  education  !  What  a  world  of  never-ending  in- 
terest lies  open  to  the  master  of  languages  ! 

The  best  translations  cannot  convey  to  us  the  strength 
and  exquisite  delicacy  of  thought  in  its  native  garb,  and 
he  to  whom  such  books  are  shut  flounders  about  in  outer 
darkness.  I  have  suffered  so  much  from  the  lack  of  that 
which  my  father  could  easily  have  given  me  in  youth,  and 
which  he  himself  possessed,  that  I  am  all  the  more  anxious 
you  shall  escape  my  punishment  in  that  respect ;  that 
you  may  not,  like  me,  dream  of  those  advantages  which 


50  EDWIN    r>OOTH 

Others  enjoy  throui^h  any  lack  of  opportunity  or  neglect 
of  mine.  Tlicrcfore,  learn  to  love  your  Latin,  your 
I'rcnch,  and  }'our  English  grammar  ;  standing  firmh'  and 
securely  on  them,  you  have  a  solid  foothold  m  the  field 
of  literature.   .   .   . 

Think  how  interesting  it  will  be  hereafter  to  refer  to 
your  journal,  and  see  the  rapid  development,  not  only  of 
}'our  mind,  but  of  your  moral  growth  ;  only  do  not  fail  to 
record  all  your  shortcomings ;  they  will  not  stand  as  re- 
proaches, but  as  mere  snags  in  the  tortuous  river  of  your 
life,  to  be  avoided  in  succeeding  trips  farther  down  the 
stream.  They  beset  us  all  along  the  route,  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  and  if  we  can  only  see  them  we  can 
avoid  many  rough  bumps. 

God  bless  my  darling !  Papa. 


Dec.  9,  1879. 
O    MY   EIGHTEENTH    DAUGHTER ! 

How  old  you  make  your  daddy  feel!  You  see  I've 
had  to  purloin  some  of  your  paper  (mine  's  "  done 
gone  ")  on  which  to  write  my  congratulations,  my  loving 
hopes  and  "  blessful  "  wishes  for  your  future. 

Deeming  it  most  appropriate  on  your  birthdays  to  give 
you  (what  really  is  your  own)  a  memento  of  your  mother, 
it  was  my  intention  to  mark  each  year  with  some  one 
little  relic ;  but,  alas !  the  annuals  come  so  quickly  that, 
few  as  the  treasures  are,  you  'd  be  a  Mrs.  Methuselah 
(according  to  my  count,  at  least)  before  you  'd  get  them 
all.  Therefore  I  concluded  to  let  you  have  the  lot  at 
once  to-day,  being  now  old  and  large  enough  to  wear 
what  you  may  consider  appropriate,  and  to  put  by,  as 
dear  souvenirs,  such  as  may  be  of  no  use  or  too  old- 
fashioned  for  the  present  time.     Association  makes  them 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  5 1 

dearer  than  any  I  could  buy  for  such  an  occasion,  and  the 
poetry  of  the  notion  pleases  me  better;  I  am  sure  you 
will  appreciate  the  sentiment.   .   .   . 

God    bless    you,  my   daughter,    and    grant    you    very 
many  and  very,  very  happy  returns  of  this  day  ! 

Your  loving  father. 


New  York,  June  4,  1880. 

.  .  .  You  've  been  so  long  away  that  I  'm  tired  of 
writing  funny.  .  .  .  Grandma  got  your  letter  on  her 
birthday  ;  I  wish  I  had  told  you  of  the  event.  She  was 
much  pleased,  of  course,  and  says  she  will  write  you 
from  the  Branch,  whither  she  goes  on  Wednesday.  .  .  . 
It  now  seems  years  ago  since  I  saw  you,  and  I  long  to 
see  "  my  old  girl  "  again.  I  doubt  if  I  shall  recognize 
you.  The  thought  that  the  change  has  done  you  good, 
and  that  you  have  had  a  jolly  time,  compensates  me  for 
the  separation.  Strange,  I  did  not  miss  you  much  at 
first,  but  as  the  days  passed  on,  I  began  to  fidget,  and 
wonder  where  you  were,  and  so  forth.  Now,  is  n't  it 
queer  that  such  an  old  pump  as  I  should  be  worrying 
about  a  mere  girl  ?  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  o{  yourself \ 
Nothing  has  yet  been  done  towards  getting  ready  for  our 
departure.  I  hope  that  nothing  will  prevent  it.  My 
wits  have  been  worried  over  the  breakfast,^  and  the 
speech  I  must  make.  It  is  probable  that  McEntee's 
pictures  of  me  will  be  hung  about  the  walls  during  the 
feast.  I  hope  so.  Mr.  Bispham  spoke  of  them  to-night. 
...  I  felt  like  letting  you  know  that  you  also  had  an 
old  pop  that  sometimes  thinks  of  his  darlin'  darter.  .  .  . 
Bless  you  !  I*Vom  papa. 

1  This  referred  to  a  farewell  breakfast  which  was  given  to  my  father  at  Del- 
monico's  prior  to  his  sailing  for  Europe. 


5- 


KDWIN    BOOTH 


Hartford,  Conn.,  Feb'y  17,  1885. 


|).\Ri  iNo  n.\uc;irii;R  : 

1  h.ivc  this  moment  arrived  from  New  Haven  —  tele- 
i^raphcd  yoii  from  there  this  morning;  a  pleasant  ride- 
I'rof.  Weir  was  with  me  at  the  theatre  all  evening,  and  he 
promised  to  breakfast  with  me  at  ten  this  morning.  .  .  . 
\Vc  went  to  his  studio,  thence  to  his  house,  where  I  stayed 
till  one  o'clock  with  his  family.  .  .  .  Hoped  to  see  you, 
and  all  sent  lots  of  loving  messages  to  you.  The  plays 
went  finely,  and  the  house  was  full  in  spite  of  the  terrific 
storm.  I  get  a  certainty,  so  do  not  know  the  amount  of 
money  taken.  The  legislature  is  in  session,  and  the 
good  rooms  of  this  hotel  are  filled :  the  one  prepared  for 
me  was  worn  and  shabby,  and  so  I  asked  for  a  larger 
one,  and  here  I  am  writing  you  while  the  fire  is  being 
made  and  my  dinner  prepared.  My  hands  are  a  little  stiff 
with  cold,  and  my  desk  is  the  bureau  for  the  nonce.  .  .  . 
Here  is  my  dinner,  so  I  '11  stop  awhile.      Bye-bye  ! 

After  dinner. 
Field  came  as  I  was  "topping  off"  with  cold  mince-pie, 
and  talked  business  for  two  hours ;  now  he  is  gone,  and 
H —  is  setting  out  my  toilet  articles.  It  is  four  o'clock, 
and  after  I  finish  this  I  '11  nap  it  till  cup  o'  tea  time.  So 
mucli  for  pop;  now  for  my  girl.  How  are  she  ?  I  hoped 
to  find  a  letter  here,  but  p'raps  't  is  yet  too  previous,  as 
the  classicists  say.  Remember,  you  must  send  your  letters 
ahead,  calculating  by  the  list  of  dates  and  places  that  you 
have.  I  hope,  my  darling,  that  you  are  well,  and  not 
worrying  about  me.  My  time  is  whirled  away  by  travel 
and  acting,  you  know,  and  you  must  occupy  yours  by 
attention  to  your  health  and  daily  exercise.  .  .  .  Before  I 
nap  I  want  to  scribble  a  few  lines  to  mother,  dear  old 
soul;    I   intended  to  do  so  before  I  left.     The  brick-dark 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  53 

head  waiter  here  welcomed  me  with  a  hearty  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  kind  enquiries  after  you.  Fraternal  fiend  ! 
Being  alone  here  takes  me  back  twenty-five  years,  when 
I  was  your  mother's  sweetheart,  and  used  to  sit  thus  scrib- 
bling to  her.  I  can't  write  so  many  letters  now,  however, 
as  I  then  did.  I  '11  write  as  often  as  my  nerves  will  let  me, 
but  will  wire  you  every  day. 

God  bless  my  girl ! 

Papa. 


Philadelphia,  April  7,  1885. 
O  MY  daughter! 

Your  dear  letter  was  on  my  table  with  the  "  radicks  " 
and  eggs  this  morning,  and,  having  played  upon  my  morn- 
ing pipe,  I  now  sit  to  answer  it.  Darling,  I  do  not,  I  can- 
not, allow  my  mind  to  dwell  on  the  fact  that  we  must  be 
parted.^  The  pain  of  it  will  be  enough  when  it  comes,  yet  I 
am  confident — like  a  bitter  draught  —  it  will  have  a  whole- 
some effect.  ...  I  feel  a  strengthening  faith  in  Igna- 
tius's  ability  to  make  your  life  what  I  would  have  it  —  a 
sunny,  cheerful,  homely  contentment.  God  bless  you 
both! 

I  am  in  a  delightful,  cozy  room  in  a  small  hotel,  very 
"  uppy,"  and  yet  modest.  The  walls  have  fine  pictures 
on  them ;  the  mantel  is  bric-a-brac'd,  and  the  "  toot  and 
tumble  "  is  very  homelike,  and  the  food  is  good. 

I  opened  to  a  very  large  and  enthusiastic  house,  and 
acted  well.     Am  rather  tired  this  morning,  but  well. 

My  sole  caller  was  young  Furncss,  yesterday,  who  goes 
back  to  Boston  to-day.  His  father  will  see  me  this  after- 
noon, and  coax  me  to  dine  with  him  Sunday.  He  says 
most  affectionately  that  we  vmst  sec  something  of  each 
other  during  this  brief  visit.      Now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?     I 

I  This  refers  to  my  approaching  marriage. 
4* 


54 


i:n\V!N    IJOOTH 


tiiul  that  the  only  Suiulay  train  that  I  can  take  for  New 
York  leaves  at  eii^ht  o'clock,  which  would  necessitate  ris- 
ing at  six.  ami  after  the  tloiible  performance  of  Saturday 
I  would  be  loathe  to  leave  my  bed  so  early.  Still,  it 
won't  kill  me  much  ;  1  '11  make  up  my  mind  in  a  day  or 
two.  1  "m  j,dad  you  went  to  Johnson,  and  I  do  hope  he 
will  succeed  in  satisfying;  me  with  the  portrait.  ...  I 
must  go  out  while  here,  for  the  chambermaid  can't  have 
the  rooms  otherwise,  curtains  being  the  dividing  partition 
of  my  bedroom  and  parlor.  So,  as  the  day  is  bright, 
and   't  is  growing  late,   I   '11  go,  and  let  her  come. 

Mn'  love  to  Ignatius,  with  a  thousand  blessings  from 
your  loving  Pop. 


Philadelphia,  April  8,  1885. 
Darling: 

I  rcc'd  your  second  letter  at  breakfast-time  :  it  is  full  of 
goodness;  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  answer  it  to-day,  but 
while  dinner  is  preparing  I  scribble  a  very  brief  acknow- 
ledgment. If  Ignatius  and  I  were  both  absent  from  you 
at  the  same  time  it  might  tax  you  sorely  to  provide  us 
both  with  love-letters.  Perhaps  he  'd  be  jealous  if  he 
read  mine.      Bless  you  ! 

Last  night  the  house  was  again  crowded,  and  audience 
very  demonstrative,  and  I  think  I  acted  even  better  than 
the  first  night.  The  people  seemed  to  be  far  more  de- 
monstrative than  any  that  I  've  acted  to  elsewhere.  .  ,  . 
Have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  Furness,  who  was  out; 
but  by  agreement  I  sat  in  his  library  and  smoked  his  pipe. 
Mis  father'  (whom  I  never  met  before)  came  in  and  chat- 
ted awhile,  and  then  the  eldest  son.  While  I  was  there 
Furness  called  here  d.nd  left  his  skull,- which  I  shall  use  to- 

»The  Rev.  Dr.  W.  H.  F'urness,  the  Unitarian  divine,  who  is  still  preaching 
at  the  advanced  age  of  ninety-two. 
»  A  skull  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Horace  Howard  Furness  of  Philadelphia. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  55 

night.  This  skull  has  been  used  by  all  the  great  actors 
since  Kean.  There  being  some  doubt  as  to  my  having 
ever  used  it,  we  will  make  it  sure  to-night. 

It  is  now  raining  very  hard,  and  't  is  very  warm.  The 
"  Clover  Club,"  which  meets  in  this  hotel,  invites  me  to 
appear  at  their  board  to-morrow  at  five  ;  but  I  cannot  ac- 
cept, of  course,  but  may  drop  in  on  them  after  the  play. 
Furness  also  begs  me  to  visit  the  "  Penn  Club  "  with  him 
some  night  after  the  play ;  he  wants  me  to  pass  Sunday 
with  him,  but  spoke  of  the  morning,  not  evening.  God 
bless  you!  I  hope  all  goes  well  at  the  house.  Love  to  all, 
from  your  dear  old  Pop. 


Philadelphia,  April  14,  1885. 
My  darling  infant: 

I  rec'd  both  yours  and  Ignatius's  pleasant  letters.  Tell 
him  that  this  must  serve  as  his  answer,  or  rather  acknow- 
ledgment, as  well  as  yours,  for  I  really  grow  more  inca- 
pable of  the  task.  I  should  labor,  for  such  indeed  has 
writing  become.  His  letter  is  full  of  a  true,  manly,  lov- 
ing sentiment  that  I  would  have  my  daughter's  husband 
feel  for  her  and  for  her  father,  and  I  am  happy  in  the 
conviction  that  it  is  the  sincere  and  genuine  expression 
of  a  sacred  love.  May  God  bless  it.  May  he  strengthen 
and  preserve  it  through  a  long  and  happy  life — through 
all  eternity. 

Now,  granny,  I  am  not  going  to  spend  much  time  with 
you  to-day,  for  I  arose  very  late,  having  sat  up  with 
Othello  till  nearly  daylight,  it  being  my  moody  time  for 
keeping  faith  with  Furness  on  the  Shakspere  subject,  and 
at  such  times,  when  I  begin,  I  can't  stop  till  I  have  had  my 
say.  .  .  .  At  Furncss's  Sunday  therecamea  marvelous  man, 
Keller,  the  magician,  who  yesterday  gave  Furness  and 
me  a  private  exhibition  of  his  expose  of  spiritualism,  the 


^6  EDWIN    BOOTH 

most  astouiulini;  pcrfoi  inaiicc  I  ever  beheld.  Had  he  not 
assiircil  us  that  't  was  all  a  trick,  both  Furness  and  I  could 
not  but  have  believed  it  supernatural.  Furness  is  one 
of  a  committee  foniu-d  for  the  purpose  of  investigating  the 
phenomena  of  "spiritualism,"  with  more  than  half  a  hope 
to  prove  its  truth,  and  I  want  him  to  see  Mrs.  Thaxter's 
friend  in  Boston.  Keller,  however, — so  far  as  physical 
manifestations  go, — has  settled  the  question,  unless  he,  as 
spiritualists  declare,  is  a  medium,  and  calls  his  "wonders" 
tricks  for  mere  money-making.  I  don't  believe  it;  I 
think  he  is  honest,  and  yet  I  've  had  such  strange  experi- 
ences in  that  direction  that  I  'm  inclined  to  accept  almost 
evervthing  that  savors  of  mystery  as  supernatural. 

I  am  to  speak  a  speech  4th  of  May  at  the  Art  Mu- 
seum about  Poe  —  no  escape  for  me  !  Pity  and  pray  for 
me!     Bye-bye;  love  to  all.     God  bless  you!  Papa. 


Home,  Boston,  Friday,  April  15,  1885. 
Darling  : 

I  went  to  Haverhill  at  five  o'clock.  Acted  there  in  a 
very  large,  very  fine,  and  very  crowded  theatre.  .  .  . 
Everywhere  thus  far  the  houses  are  large  and  filled  to 
overflowing.  I  get  a  certainty,  so  do  not  know  what  the 
receipts  are,  .  .  .  but  I  am  satisfied,  although  I  do  all 
the  work.   .   .   . 

The  hotel  at  Haverhill  is  the  worst  this  side  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  Dirt  and  food  unfit  for  hyenas. 
1  his  is  no  mawkish,  fussy,  old  womanish  complaint ;  the 
dirt  was  real  this  time.  No  carpets  were  on  the  halls  and 
stairs,  and  the  noise  all  night  and  early  morning  was 
jolly.  When  I  saw  my  clothes  this  morning  I  under- 
stood why  the  halls  and  stairs  were  bare ;  the  carpets  had 
crawled  aivay !     And    I  've    no    doubt   that  my  clothes 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  57 

would  have  disappeared  if  I  had  not  secured  them  in  the 
dawning  of  this  blessed  day.  All  the  companies  stopped 
at  the  same  house,  and  they  agreed  that  the  food  was  un- 
eatable and  the  accommodations  beastly.  However,  I  am 
cozily  fixed  before  our  Franklin,  writing  of  past  horrors 
with  perfect  peace  at  heart.   .   .  . 

Before  I  leave  Haverhill — forever,  I  hope!  —  I  must  tell 
you  of  a  curious  httle  incident  that  occurred  this  morning. 
The  porter  came  for  my  trunk,  and  while  my  back  v.as 
toward  him  he  exclaimed:  "My!  How  fat  ye  've  got 
since  I  see  yer  last !  An'  how  's  Miss  Edwina  ?  Have  n't 
seen  her  since  I  held  her  in  my  arrums ;  and  ah,  but  she 
had  a  nice  gurrel  for  a  nurse  !  "  I  looked  at  the  party,  but 
could  not  recognize  him.   ..." 

I  got  your  letters  late  last  night,  but  fearing  that  my 
answer  may  not  reach  New  York  before  you  leave  to- 
morrow, I  shall  not  mail  it,  but  leave  it  here  for  you.  I 
start  for  Providence  at  3:30,  and  will  leave  there  Sunday 
morning  about  eight,  getting  here  to  breakfast  about 
ten  o'clock.  ...  I  would  not  have  had  you  on  the  tour 
with  me  for  worlds,  and  I  am  told  that  the  next  week's 
tour  is  worse,  so  far  as  theatres  and  hotels  are  con- 
cerned. I  've  known  much  rougher  work,  but  of  late 
years  I  've  been  too  comfortable  to  appreciate  this  sort 
of  thing.   .   .   . 

My  theory  of  marriage  is  mental  affinity:  hearts  may 
be  joined,  truly  so,  but  if  the  intellectual  sympathy  is 
n'jt  perfect,  no  real  happiness  can  result.  The  Friar 
says  to  Romeo  and  Juliet :  "  These  violent  delights  have 
violent  ends,  and  in  their  triumphs  die."  Be  sure  that 
"  the  marriage  of  true  minds  "  only  is  the  perfect  marriage. 
Between  you  two  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
mind,  and  not  heart  alone,  has  influenced  you,  and  I  look 
forward  with  confidence  to  a  blessed  partnership  of  life's 
joys  and  sorrows.  .  .  .  Goodness,  gentleness,  protection, 


KDWIN   BOOTH 


will  satisfy  the  heart,  and  he  possesses  these  qualities,  you 
arc  assured  ;   I  also  believe  it.   .   .   . 

Tiotl  bless  you  —  bless  you  both  !  I  am  in  great  haste 
ni>w.  for  I  've  dinetl  since  I  began  this,  as  I  leave  at 
3:30.  .  .  .  God's  blessings  on  thee !  Papa. 


New  York,  Sunday,  May  24,  1885. 
Mv  hARl.lNG: 

Since  I  left  you  Wednesday^  I  have  been  in  a  daze  — 
every  one  endeavoring  to  prevent  me  from  loneliness, 
and  doing  in  pure  kindness  everything  to  prevent  what 
I  most  wish  to  do.  .  .  .  Worse  than  all,  I  missed  writ- 
ing to  you  by  yesterday's  mail.  I  forgot  the  date,  and 
delayed  too  long.  A  note  from  D —  told  me  she  had 
written,  and  I  realized  how  thoughtless  I  had  been.  I 
must  cable  you  to-morrow,  but,  unfortunately,  I  left  my 
code  in  Boston,  and  I  shall  therefore  defer  my  return 
home  till  Tuesday.  ...  I  got  your  message  from  Sandy 
Hook.  Darling,  I  can't  tell  you  just  how  I  feel — the 
separation  has  been  a  wrench  to  my  nerves;  but  when 
in  the  midst  of  my  selfishness  the  thought  comes  of  your 
happiness  and  the  good  that  will  come  to  you,  I  cease  to 
grieve,  and  somehow  enjoy  your  pleasures  as  if  I  were 
with  you. 

In  a  few  days  I  shall  be  at  work,  I  hope,  with  Sky  lock, 
for  Furness,  and  I  shall  endeavor  to  keep  myself  interested 
in  such  work.  ...  I  feel  confident  that  Ignatius  will 
watch  over  your  health  and  be  very  careful  of  you  in 
every  way. 

May  God  bless  and  guard  you  both  !  Until  I  know 
that  you  are  safe  beyond  the  icebergs  and  other  sea  dan- 
gers I  cannot  be  quite  at  rest.      The  terrible  escape  of  the 

1  This  refers  to  my  departure  for  Europe  on  my  wedding-trip. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  59 

Berliji  from  destruction  a  few  days  ago  has  of  course 
increased  my  fears.  .  .  .  God  grant  that  by  Thursday  next 
I  shall  have  good  news  from  you.  Poor  grandma  wor- 
ries over  me,  of  course.  I  shall  come  here  in  two  weeks 
and  help  her  move,  and  stay  with  Bispham  for  a  few 
days. 

God  bless  you,  darling !  Enjoy  prudently  all  that 
your  new  life  and  travel  offer,  and  come  back  to  old 
pop  rosy  with  health  and  happiness. 

Love  to  I.  and  a  kiss  for  my  girl.  Papa. 


Boston,  May  29,  1885. 

My  DARLING: 

To-day  I  got  your  cablegram  from  Southampton.  Heard 
yesterday  afternoon  that  your  ship  had  been  seen  near 
Southampton,  so  I  got  the  good  news  before  the  evening 
press  could  publish  it.  I  was  relieved  of  great  anxiety, 
for  of  late,  within  the  week,  several  terrible  escapes 
from  icebergs  and  one  collision  with  great  loss  of  life 
have  occurred.  Now  I  am  more  at  ease,  and  feel  quite 
cheerful.   .    .   . 

Warren  ^  got  my  invitation  too  late,  and  came  about 
four  to  smoke  and  stop  to  tea.  He  is  now  napping  on 
my  bed  while  I  write,  and  at  seven  I  expect  Aldrich  to 
return  and  tea  with  us.  The  following  Saturday  I  will 
go  to  New  York  to  help  mother  move,  to  stop  with 
Bispham  while  there;  the  following  week,  June  15,  I 
shall  open  house  at  "  Boothdcn."  I  have  invited  all  the 
folks,  and  they  are  delighted  to  come  some  time  during 
the  summer.  With  so  many  callers,  and  the  visits  I  hope 
and  have  promised  to  make,  the  summer  Avill  slip  very 
quickly,  I  hope,  till  you  return,  which  will  be  really  viy 

•  The  late  Mr.  William  Warren  of  Boston. 


6o  EDWIN   BOOTH 

stt'umcr.  .  .  .  Tucsda)'  I  am  to  have  a  talk  with  Field 
about   next  season,  which  I  hope  will  end  satisfactorily. 

l-".very  morning  I  find  myself  on  the  verge  of  asking  if 
daughter  is  up  yet,  or  if  she  has  had  her  breakfast  in 
her  rt>om,  aiul  frequently  during  the  day  I  am  about  to 
call  )'ou  :  at  night  I  seem  to  feel  that  you  're  up-stairs  in 
bed,  while  I  sit  here  in  my  den  reading  or  writing,  and  am 
less  lonely,  being  so  accustomed  to  sit  here  late  by  my- 
self; through  the  day,  of  course,  I  can  find  many  things 
to  distract  and  occupy  my  thoughts.  Now  that  you  are 
safe  over  the  sea,  and  the  worst  (my  coming  home)  is 
over,  I  am  as  jolly  as  a  shoe-brush.  You  must  think  of 
me  as  being  anxious  only  to  receive  long  letters  from 
you  by  every  convenient  mail,  and  not  at  all  lone- 
some. 

Love  to  I.  God  bless  you,  my  dearest.  .  .  .  God  guide 
and  guard  you!  Everything  is  lovely  here;  the  vines 
and  trees,  the  birds  and  grass,  and  the  delicious  tempera- 
ture, make  Boston  delightful  now.  If  I  had  n't  "  Booth- 
den  "  I  'd  stay  here  in  preference,  and  merely  visit  now 
and  then  for  a  change.  I  enclose  a  few  letters;  many 
others  that  have  come  are  evidently  cards,  which  are 
hardly  worth  sending  you. 

God  bless  you  both  !  Papa. 


"BooTHDEN,"  June  28,  1885. 
D.\rling: 

To  begin  :  my  pen  is  stiff  and  rusty — now  I  '11  proceed. 
I  have  been  missing  you  very  much,  .  .  .  but  your  letters 
and  messages  prevent  my  being  very  selfish,  so  I  man- 
age to  keep  my  mind  employed  with  the  dear  thought 
of  your  happiness,  and  the  anticipation  of  "  daughter's 
return."  There  must  be  a  letter  or  cablegram  in  Boston 
for  me,  which  I  hope  to  receive  to-morrow.  .  .  .  To-day 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  6l 

we  started  for  a  walk  along  our  shore,  but  as  we  were  ap- 
proaching Huntington's  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  we 
took  shelter  at  last  in  the  fisherman's  hut,  till  we  could 
get  home  without  a  drenching.  Home  and  change  of 
garments  succeeded,  and  as  it  is  still  raining,  all  are  read- 
ing except  me,  who  am  struggling  with  this  pale  ink.  .   .  , 

To  my  wish  they  have  brought  me  two  long  and  most 
delightful  letters  from  Ischl  (that  's  a  terrible  spell  of  it !). 
Your  descriptions  are  very  interesting,  and  make  me  wish 
I  were  with  you.  I  presume  you  will  not  go  to  Italy. 
Why  not  try  the  little  house  in  Clarges  St.,  London  ? 
There  are  several  such  cozy  places  in  that  street;  I  for- 
get the  number,  and  the  name  of  the  people.  The  articles 
you  sent  have  not  yet  arrived.  .  .  I  '11  take  good  care 
of  the  photos  —  such  careful  care  that,  as  usual,  I  '11  not  be 
able  to  find  them  when  needed.  ...  I  can't  give  you 
much  of  detailed  account  of  my  daily  doings,  for  I  have 
fallen  into  the  bad  habit  of  sleeping  until  noon,  some- 
times, and  again  after  dinner ;  consequently  the  days 
slip  by  without  any  event  worth  recording. 

In  September  I  'm  expecting  the  return  of  my  married 
daughter  from  Europe.  David  and  his  lady  companion 
Miss  Fanny  [our  horses],  have  both  sore  backs,  and  can't 
be  used,  so  I  'm  reduced  to  one  horse  for  a  while. 
Luckily  I  have  no  guests  this  week — At  this  point  H. 
called,  and  has  gabbled  an  hour  about  lawn  tennis, 
which  he  wishes  me  to  play  with  his  daughter  to-morrow 
("No,  sir;  no,  sir;  no,  siree — sir;  no,  sir!)  and  I  talked 
telephone  and  macadamizing  the  road  to  him  —  he  is 
eager  for  both.  ...  I  must  tea  with  Bishop  Clark  and 
Mrs.  Sturtevant  some  day  this  week. 

Have  sailed  but  three  times  this  season ;  horscbacked 
once,  and  that  once  was  more  like  labor  than  fun,  and  so 
I  gave  it  up.  Sec  your  venerable  papa  now  behind  a 
pile  of  letters  and  bills,  scowling  at  them,  and  promising 


62  EDWIN    BOOTH 

to    attciul    to    thcni    to-iitornK^'  —  "to-morrow    and    to- 
morrow  aiu]    to-morrow  !  "   .   .   . 

It  \-oii  were  here,  despite  the  jolly  times  you  are  enjoy- 
ing; at  Ischl  ant!  in  the  T\'rol,  I  think  you  would  be 
happy,  for,  now  the  fog  and  heat  are  gone,  it  is  indeed 
a  par.idise,  full  of  calm,  and  all  that  is  restful.  If  any 
purchaser  comes  on  such  a  day,  I  '11  not  sell  despite  the 
care  of  keeping  such  a  place.  My  wrist  aches,  and  I 
must  quit  for  a  while. 

Love  to  both  of  you.     God  bless  you  ! 

Papa. 

"BooTiiDEN,"  Newport,  July  27,  1885. 

When  I  rec'd  your  despatch,  asking  if  I  were  ill, 
I  was  at  the  telegraph-office  in  town,  and  had  not  my 
code-key  with  me  ;  therefore,  I  cabled  you  in  full.   . 

The  Barretts  (Lawrence  and  Milly)  had  a  splendid  time, 
and  I  enjoyed  their  visit.  In  my  last,  I  think,  I  told  you 
of  the  surprise  party.  .  .  .  After  the  1st  of  August, 
Aldrich  will  come,  and  Mrs.  D —  wants  me  before  the 
6th  or  after  the  nth,  and  I  'm  afraid  that  I  've  snarled 
things,  as  usual,  by  inviting  folks  here  just  at  those  dates. 
Must  look  over  your  letter  again  before  I  continue  this;  it 
is  just  after  breakfast,  and  I  write  by  way  of  getting  my 
hand  in  while  a  fly  is  persistently  investigating  the  tym- 
panum of  my  right  ear.  For  a  day  or  two,  here,  the  heat 
was  intense ;  very  thick  fog  one  day  only,  thus  far.   .   .  . 

I  have  great  difficulty  in  keeping  my  glasses  on,  and  you 
cannot  imagine  how  hard  it  is  to  write  (or  read)  without 
eyes  —  at  least  with  eyes  that  tumble  out  of  their  sockets 
every  other  moment,  and  get  so  blurred  that  when  they 
do  stay  in  place  for  a  while,  't  is  difficult  to  see  with 
them.  I  must  get  a  pair  of  old-style  spectacles,  that  will 
keep  their  place. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  63 

The  summer  has  flown  quickly.  I  have  missed  you 
very  much  ;  but  being  half  the  time  in  a  sort  of  daze,  the 
weeks  hav^e  gone  into  months  without  my  being  aware 
of  their  flight,  or  without  any  particular  enjoyment 
of  their  passage.  From  this  you  may  suppose  I  have 
not  been  lonely.  I  often  wish  that  I  had  some  vacant 
space,  some  little  lonely  time  to  myself,  for  as  it  is,  I 
have  been  in  a  whirl,  as  it  were.  Everything  here  is 
lovely.   .   .   . 

Newport  is  not  very  lively.  'T  is  not  "  chic  "  to  visit 
the  casino,  this  summer ;  next  year,  perhaps,  't  will  be 
all  the  rage.  Ignatius  did  right  to  prevent  your  being 
salted,  and  you  were  very  proper  in  not  donning  the 
miners'  costume.'  I  am  so  glad  that  your  health  keeps 
good,  and  that  all  is  so  bright  and  happy  for  you.  God 
grant  it  may  be  so  ever ! 

I  think  I  have  told  you  more  particulars  about  the  place 
in  former  letters.  It  is  lovelier  than  ever ;  the  rooms  in 
the  laundry  are  good-sized  and  comfortable,  and  the  girls 
like  them  ;  in  the  boat-house  are  also  two  small  bedrooms 
for  W —  and  his  wife.  .  .  .  Have  sailed  but  thrice  this 
summer.  .  .  .  I  'm  sorry  that  I  can't  give  you  such  long 
and  interesting  letters  as  you  send  me ;  "  years  and  years 
ago,"  I  delighted  in  scribbling  long  (but,  I  fear,  not  inter- 
esting) letters  to  many  friends,  but  now  it  is  a  labor  to 
write  the  briefest  epistle,  and  I  forgive  I — ,  C — ,  J — , 
and  A —  for  their  neglect  of  my  letters.  I  have  replied  to 
quite  a  number,  lately,  by  wire,  rather  than  to  write.  But 
you  must  not  lessen  yours  to  me,  for  I  'm  glad  to  receive 
such  good  ones  as  you  send.   .  .   . 

I  am  now  tired  of  my  cramped  position,  and  my  brain 
is  run  dry  ;  liave  told  you  all  the  gossip  that  I  know.  .  .  . 
Adieu,  my  daughter !  God  bless  you  !  I  shall  probably 
know  this  evening  where  you  are,  in  reply  to  my  cable- 

1  This  refers  to  a  visit  to  the  salt-mines  in  Salzburg. 


64  KDWIN    BOOTH 

^rain.     Dear  love  for  you  both.     I  enclose  a  little  flower 
from  our  t^ardon,  aiul  a  leaf  of  lemon  verbena. 
God  bless  !     Cable  from  Geneva  just  come. 

Papa. 


"  lk:)()TiiDEN,"  Newport,  1885. 

I  inlciKicd  to  write  a  page  at  Cohasset  before  I  got 
lierc,  but  't  is  diflicult  to  do  anything  when  visiting,  and 
so  two  days  have  slipped  from  me.  The  photos  caught 
me  there,  and  the  one  good  one  is,  I  think,  the  best  I  've 
seen  of  you.  .  .  .  The  views  of  Pesth  came  yesterday, 
and  a  message  from  Innsbruck  has  also  come.  .  .  . 

Last  night  we  three  were  bathing  in  the  moonlight, 
about  nine  o'clock,  when  a  wagon-load  of  folks  came  up. 
...  A  jolly  surprise  party.  .  .  .  Jefiferson  has  sent  me  a 
huge  salmon  from  Canada,  killed  and  smoked  by  himself. 
This  will  not  be  half  so  long  a  letter  as  I  intended.  When 
I  can  be  alone  for  a  few  days,  I  will  go  over  your  letters, 
and  try  to  make  mine  more  of  an  answer;  but  while  I 
have  guests,  and  am  visiting,  it  seems  impossible  to  write 
a  decent  letter.  My  next  go  will  be  to  the  D — 's,  and 
they  '11  come  here.  I  have  really  had  no  quiet  or  rest  at 
all ;  thus  far  it  has  been  excitement  all  the  time.  .  .  . 
The  heat  has  been  terrific  in  the  cities  ;  here  we  have  a 
breeze  most  of  the  time.  I  must  close  now  for  want  of 
time.  .  .  .   God  bless  and  guard  you  !     Love  for  both. 

Papa. 


"BOOTHDEN,"  August  24,    1885. 

D.MsLixr, : 

I  have  just  reread  your  letters  of  August  i,  5,  6, 
and  8  — the  last  from  Paris.  ...  I  naturally  con- 
cluded that  you  hurried  away  from  Paris,  but  your  letter 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  65 

disproves  that.  It  may  be  that  a  letter  from  you  will  come 
to-morrow.    .    ,    . 

Launt  Thompson's  head  of  the  Saviour  has  been  put 
into  faience  and  colored  in  Florence,  and  he  will  give  one 
to  be  placed  in  the  chapel  under  your  window.    .    .    . 

This  may  not  reach  you  until  after  you  reach  London. 
I  '11  write  again,  and  send  to  the  Eider  s.  s.,  which  you 
will  take  at  Southampton,  I  fancy.    .    .    . 

My  arrangement  with  Barrett  is  a  year  off;  't  is  to  be 
a  farewell  tour  of  the  West  and  South  only.    .    .    . 

The  pet  duckling  will  be  cooked  and  eaten  long  before 
you  get  home,  I  fear;  they  don't  play  duckhngs  very 
long. 

I  am  sorry  this  is  so  short  and  so  dry  a  letter,  but  it  is 
the  best  I  can  do  in  return  for  your  long  and  very  inter- 
esting ones.  If  you  should  not  get  another  at  South- 
ampton, don't  feel  disappointed,  for  unless  I  am  in  the 
mood  for  it,  writing  is  an  impossibility  to  me. 

I  am  counting  the  days  between  us  now — not  the 
weeks  or  months  any  more.  To-day  next  month  I  hope 
to  have  you  here,  if  not  earlier.  Your  ship  should  ar- 
rive about  the  20th,  I  think.  God  bless  you,  dearest! 
Love  to  both.  Y'r  loving  papa. 


339  West  23D  Street, 

New  York,  Oct.  22,  1885. 
Darling  : 

Poor  grandma  passed  away  at  three  this  morning.  I 
did  not  arrive  till  seven.  How  strange  that  it  should  be 
my  lot  always  in  such  cases  to  arrive  too  late  !  The  dear 
one  looks  better  and  more  cheerful  and  much  younger 
than  she  has  appeared  for  years.  .  .  .  The  doctor,  yes- 
terday, did  not  think  it  necessary  to  send  for  me  then. 
She  fell  into  a  stupor  about  7:30  last  night,  and  died  so 
5 


60  KDWIN    BOOTH 

at  three.  Mrs.  Anderson  came,  and  is  now  gone  for  her 
minister  to  ho\(\  services  at  four  o'clock  Friday.  I  have 
sent  word  to  Baltimore  to  have  all  ready  for  the  burial 
in  father's  j^rave,  if  possible,  on  Saturday  afternoon. 

.\lthoui;h  this  is  a  satl  blow  to  me,  I  have  been  prepared 
a  loni;  time  for  it,  and  the  knowledge  of  her  release  from 
suffering  is  a  comfort.  'T  is  for  poor  Rose*  I  feel  most 
anxious.  She  has  just  sighed,  barely  loud  enough  for  me 
t«)  hear,  "  1  wish  I  was  gone,  too."  Poor,  poor  soul !  I 
nuist  now  arrange  something  for  her.  I  am  waiting  for 
the  doctor  and  the  embalmers ;  I  can't  endure  the  idea 
of  placing  the  body  on  ice. 

I  managed  to  sleep  pretty  well  last  night,  and  was  not 
at  all  fatigued.  You  must  not  be  anxious  for  me  in  the 
least.  I  am  well,  and  accept  this  sorrow  with  calmness. 
'T  is  my  nature  to  be  always  expecting  Death,  and  when 
he  comes,  he  does  not  much  surprise  me.  Besides,  I  have 
always  regarded  the  "  change  "  as  a  blessing  rather  than 
a  loss.     God  bless  you,  darling  ! 

Papa. 


Baltimore,  November  17,  1885. 
Darling: 

I  am  about  going  to  dine  with  Gilmer  Meredith,  to 
meet  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kirkus,  who  called  on  me  at  Newport. 
This  is  the  only  free  day  I  have  had  or  will  have  while 
here.  I  cannot  keep  my  promises  to  others  than  M — , 
for  I  am  very  tired,  and  Hamlet  to-night.  .  .  .  Business  is 
very  fine,  and  I  am  in  good  sort  for  my  work ;  but  I  feel 
the  reaction  greatly  ...  I  wrote  twenty  letters  Sunday, 
and  was  interrupted  by  as  many  callers;  consequently 
several    letters  were  left  unanswered.     It    is    clear   and 

1  Rosalie  Rooth,  my  father's  maiden  sister,  who  lived  with  her  mother  in  un- 
selfish devotion  to  the  end  of  her  days. 


1 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  (i'j 

coolish ;  wear  my  ulster  and  my  winter  underclothes,  but 
't  is  very  pleasant  weather.  I  have  just  torn  out  a  few 
notices  from  papers.  I  think  the  "T — "  said  I  was  enter- 
taining friends  on  my  birthday.  "  Teddy  "^  and  I  were 
alone  all  day  after  rehearsal,  and  "  napped  "  together  from 
4:30  till  6:  30. 

Keep  well.     God  bless  you!     I  shall  be  in  New  York 
Sunday  night,  I  hope.     Love  to  both. 

Papa. 


Baltimore,  January  16,  1886. 
Dear  daughter: 

I  left  Phila.  at  eleven  this  A.  M.,  and  reached  here  by 
2  :  30.  My  intention  was  to  write  you  at  once,  and  answer 
several  other  letters  that  have  been  held  over  for  a  week 
past.  ...  'T  is  now  six  o'clock  and  quite  dark ;  by  this 
delay  my  letter  may  miss  to-night's  mail,  and  you  '11  not 
get  it  till  Tuesday.  I  have  two  of  your  letters  since  I 
wrote  you.  I  was  last  night  wondering  if  I  'd  ever  hear 
again  from  McEntee,  so  many  months  have  passed  since  I 
wrote  to  him ;  I  don't  know  what  put  him  into  my  mind. 
On  my  arrival  to-day  the  only  letter  I  rec'd  was  from 
him.  ...  It  is  full  of  jolHty  and  hope,  and  he  confesses 
that  he  is  happy  and  contented.  .  .  .  The  two  weeks 
ended  last  night  with  large  houses  at  matinee  and  night. 
Dining  every  day  at  Furness's,  and  my  nap  after  getting 
back  to  the  hotel,  prevented  me  from  writing  as  often  as 
I  should  have  done  from  Phila.   .   .   . 

As  for  my  future,  I  presume  it  will  be  spent  in  work 
as  long  as  my  harness  lasts.  I  give  no  thought  to  it; 
occupation  will  be  the  best  for  me,  and  work  seems  to 
agree  with  me  nowadays.  I  shall  be  contented  if  you 
are  permanently  and  comfortably  settled  in  cozy  quarters 
and  keep  your  health.      I  've  had  ugly  dreams  about  the 

1  Meaning  himself. 


oS  EDWIN   BOOTH 

baby  of  late,  but  your  letter  proves  the  truth  of  the  old 
saving  that  "dreams  ijo  by  eontraries."  I  'm  t^lad  she  's 
^cltin^'  on  so  well.  I  hope  you  will  see  "  Rienzi."  I 
want  to  know  sonicthin<4  of  its  success,  etc. ;  Barrett  will 
be  liclii^hted  to  send  you  a  box,  I  know.  .  .  .  To-morrow 
I  shall  visit  mother's  grave  at  Greenmount.  It  has  been 
quite  warm  for  several  days  past ;  very  little  sign  of  snow 
here.  .  .  .  My  health  is  good  except  my  cold  in  the  head 
and  occasional  headaches.     God  bless  you  both ! 

Papa. 


Philadelphia,  Sunday,  1886. 

My  first  week  closed  last  night  with  two  tremen- 
dous houses.  The  matinee  ("  Hamlet ")  had  the  largest 
crowd  ever  in  this  large  theatre.  Sir  Giles  at  night  tired 
me  pretty  well,  and  I  've  passed  the  morning  in  bed.  At 
three  I  am  to  dine  with  Furness,  and  I  expect  to  remain 
there  all  the  evening.  He  is  very  hard  at  work,  and  says 
he  must  work  as  long  as  he  lives.  ...  I  am  too  sleepy 
and  stupid  to  write  sense,  and  scribble  merely  to  keep 
you  assured  that  I  am  well  and  don't  forget  you.  I  hope 
it  is  the  same  with  you,  dear  daughter.  C —  saw  me  last 
night  regarding  the  Salvini  business.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  it  will  be  carried  out.  The  main  point  is  the  com- 
pany. I  want  3^  great  "  cast,"  if  it  be  possible  to  get  one. 
He  has  written  to  Gilbert  for  Brabantio,  Polonins,  etc., 
and  to  Agnes  Booth  for  Amelia,  the  Queen,  etc.,  Marie 
Wain  Wright  for  Ophelia  and  Desdemona.  If  we  can  get 
strong  names,  the  press  and  public  will  be  satisfied.  The 
idea  is  to  play  "Lear,"  "Hamlet,"  and  "Othello"  four 
times  in  New  York,  then  four  in  Boston,  and  close  here 
with  four  performances;  the  fourth  in  each  case  being  a 
matinee.  No  free  list;  so  you  must  be  prepared  to  shell 
out  your  "  shekels  "  —  $5.00  per  ticket.     I  to  play  Ham- 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  69 

let;  Salvini,  the  King  or  the  Ghost;  Salvini,  Lear;  and  I, 
Edgar;  he,  Othello;  and  I,  lago.  The  performances  will 
not  be  half  as  well  given  as  with  an  ordinary  cast ;  but  the 
world  will  think  differently.  .  .  .  Frank  says  that  stage 
hands  and  "  little  people  "  of  the  theatres  ask  him  for 
souvenirs  of  me,  in  the  way  of  tights,  ornaments,  etc.,  as 

used  to  give  them.   ...   By  the  by,  I   came  near 

having  a  German  scene  in  New  York  the  last  night  of  my 
engagement.!  I  always  give  the  carpenters,  supers,  etc., 
a  present  when  I  leave  a  town,  and  on  that  occasion  I 
"embraced"  the  girls  in  my  donation;  their  gratitude 
was  so  profuse  that  I  feared  they  would  "  embrace  "  me 
before  I  could  get  to  my  room.  Poor  creatures,  they  are 
badly  paid,  and  have  a  hard  time. 

My  time  is  waning,  and  I  must  go  to  Furness.  I  have 
written  much  more  than  I  thought  I  could,  and  if  my  pen 
was  not  like  a  pin,  I  could  keep  it  up,  had  I  time. 

God  bless  you !  I  naturally  feel  anxious  for  you,  but 
will  not  allow  myself  to  worry  so  long  as  you  write  often 
and  give  such  good  report  of  your  condition.  Now  I 
must  hurry.     Good-bye.     Love  to  both. 


New  York,  April  27,  1886. 
Dear  daughter: 

...  I  wrote  and  mailed  a  letter  to  you  Sunday.  The 
great  event  ^  came  off  last  night,  and  all  went  well.  The 
house  was  not  packed ;  not  so  much  money,  either,  as 
Ristori  and  I  had  for  "Macbeth":  we  had  $5000;  last 
night  but  $3600.  The  prices  are  too  high.  I  could  get 
but  a  couple  of  little  boxes,  'way  up-stairs,  however,  as  I 
was  told  everything  else  was  sold ;  so  I  presume  specu- 

'  This  refers  to  the  enthusiasm  shown  by  actors  and  actresses  toward  my 
father  when  acting  in  Germany. 

2  My  father  and  Salvini  acted  together  as  lagozxiA  Otiullo  at  the  Academy 
of  Music. 

s* 


;o  EDWIN   BOOTH 

lators  had  a  lot.  If  so,  they  were  stuck.  I  believe  the 
demand  is  creator  to-day  ;  perhaps  the  Easter  festivities 
at  other  places  in  town  hurt  us.  The  papers  are  (all  that 
I  have  seen)  very  enthusiastic.      I  will  send  the  notices. 

I  am  so  glad  that  you  are  still  improving,  that  baby  is 
better.  .   .  . 

This  beastly  blue  water  (hotel  ink)  is  difficult  to  write 
with.      Rain  and  cold  yesterday  and  to-day.   .   .   . 


New  York,  Sunday,  1886. 

.  .  .  My  engagement  here  is  ended,  and  to-morrow  I  go 
to  Philadelphia.  I  have  been  busy  all  day  settling  accounts 
with  T — ,  and  getting  my  odds  and  ends  together.  Yes- 
terday I  had  a  letter  from  you,  and  hope  to  find  another 
at  the  hotel  to-morrow  or  Tuesday.  A  blizzard  raised 
"  Antique  Henry  "  with  business  the  last  two  nights,  and 
I  am  still  shivering  while  I  write.  I  've  had  a  most  curi- 
ous experience  with  Brutus  ("  Julius  Csesar  "),  with  which 
I  closed  my  engagement.  Having  so  recently  acted  it 
(seven  times),  and  with  such  success,  I  gave  myself  no 
concern  about  it,  but  when  I  found  myself  on  the  stage 
I  could  not  recall  more  than  a  few  lines  of  my  speech 
throughout  the  play.  I  made  a  "  mess  "  of  it,  and  yet  I 
was  in  excellent  condition,  otherwise.  It  mortified  me 
extremely,  for  I  calculated  on  that  part  to  give  a  satis- 
factory close  to  my  engagement.  The  matinee  and  last 
night's  performance  of  the  part  were  better,  but  I  had  had 
a  scare,  and  it  "  took  the  act  out  of  me."  .  .  .  There  is  a 
report  here  that  you  are  very  ill,  but  your  frequent  letters 
assure  me  to  the  contrary,  and  I  do  not  let  it  worry 
me.  .  .  . 

New  York,  Sunday  p.  m.,  1886. 

...  I  failed  to  write  to  you  Friday  on  account  of  a  long 
and  tiresome  rehearsal  of  "  Hamlet,"  and  therefore  tele- 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  7 1 

graphed  you  yesterday,  to  let  you  know  that  I  was  well, 
and  telling  you  not  to  mind  the  scandal  published  about 
me.  I  hope  you  saw  Bispham's  letter  in  the  "Tribune," 
which  was  true  in  every  particular,  and  also  A — 's  kind 
note  to  the  "  Post."  Other  papers  flew  to  my  rescue,  and 
consequently  I  thought  it  best  to  hold  my  tongue,  or  my 
pen,  rather.  As  for  the  vertigo,  that  is  exaggerated.  I 
was  dizzy  from  the  effects  of  dyspepsia,  and  being y^r^^^ 
up  from  the  stage  by  Sal\-ini,  who  let  me  go  before  I  had 
regained  my  footing,  I  stumbled  on  my  heels,  and  a  rent 
in  the  carpet  laid  me  flat  on  my  back.  That  was  all  of  it. 
The  same  thing  has  happened  to  me  before — in  Hamlet 
once,  in  Romeo  once,  and  on  other  occasions.  I  am  very 
weak  on  my  poor  Httle  pins,  and  the  least  inequality  on 
the  stage  will  make  me  totter — as  I  did  the  very  next 
performance  in  the  "  play  scene  "  of  "  Hamlet." 

It  's  an  infamous  thing  that  one's  reputation  should  be 
at  the  mercy  of  a  set  of  scoundrels. 

Hamlet,  Friday,  and  lago,  yesterday,  drew  great  houses, 
and  the  applause  for  me  was  tremendous.  I  took  Salvini 
and  his  son  to  the  club  last  night,  where  they  met  many 
who  spoke  Italian,  and  they  had  a  splendid  time.  There 
were  many  of  the  best  people  there,  who  all  came  to  me 
with  cordial  expressions  of  sympathy,  but  of  course  the 
slander  is  on  the  wing,  and  I  must  live  it  down,  as  I  have 
done  before  in  many  cases.  ...  I  am  so  glad,  darling, 
that  you  and  baby  are  getting  on  so  nicely. 

Salvini  is  not  a  brute,  but  very  gentle,  kind,  and  mod- 
est. I  like  him  exceedingly,  and,  taken  his  view  of 
Othello,  his  acting  is  superb.  His  Ghost  was  tender, 
majestic,  and  very  picturesque.  .  .  .  S —  refused  $2000 
to  play  an  extra  night. 

Bispham  came  home  with  me  from  the  club  last  night, 
and  read  aloud  my  sketches  of  l^ooth  and  Kean,  which 
are  now  ready  ff)r  the  press.  He  was  delighted  with 
them,  and  I  confess  that  I  was  gratified  and  rather  sur- 


72  EDWIN    BOOTH 

prised.  There  are  two  or  three  errors,  however,  which 
must  bo  corrected,  and  Hutton  is  coming  to-night  to  talk 
them  over.  The  errors,  I  am  proud  to  say,  are  not  mine. 
.  .  .  It  is  unfortunate  that  the  pubHcation  of  my  sketches 
must  be  delayed  until  the  fall.  Their  appearance  just 
now  woukl  help  my  cause,  for  in  each  of  them  I  refer  to 
the  brutal  censure  of  sick  actors,  or  whenever  an  accident 
befalls  them,  while  other  brain-workers  are  excused  on 
the  ground  of  overwork  and  nervous  prostration.  ...  I 
go  to  Philadelphia  in  the  morning.  Anthony  says  that 
the  reason  he  sent  so  little  "  asparagrass  "  is  that  he  sent 
all  there  was!      A  very  good  reason. 

Love  and  a  spank  from 

Grandpa. 


COHASSET,  Mass.,  August  4,  1886. 

...  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  anxious  about  you, 
not  having  heard  from  you  as  early  as  I  expected,  when 
your  letter  came.  I  have  been  here  since  the  cruise,  and 
shall  stay  awhile  longer,  going  to  Boston  now  and  then 
for  a  few  hours.     I  may  go  this  afternoon.  .   .  . 

I  shall  be  at  Newport  during  the  last  week  of  this 
month ;  the  following  week  must  be  spent  in  New  York 
at  rehearsals.  I  hope  the  sudden  change  has  not  afifected 
you  or  baby  —  it  was  like  winter  yesterday  and  is  quite 
cool  enough  to-day.  ...  I  saw  no  one  at  the  "Shoals"  ; 
did  not  go  ashore  till  sundown,  and  tried  to  keep  un- 
known ;  but  a  woman  on  the  ferry-boat  which  took  me 
from  Appledore  to  the  other  island  where  the  yacht  was 
moored  recognized  me,  and  she  no  doubt  told  everybody 
at  the  hotel  before  she  went  to  bed  that  night.  Several 
idiotic  stories  have  been  in  print  regarding  the  cruise  —  all 
false  and  unfunny.  One  was  that  Barrett  fell  overboard, 
and  I  jumped  after  him,  and  we  were  both  fished  out  of 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  JT, 

the  water  by  Robson  and  Crane  with  a  boat-hook,  etc. 
Barrett's  brother  took  it  seriously,  and  wrote  a  letter  of 
congratulation  before  we  had  seen  the  article.  In  a  few 
days  I  will  have  the  printed  route,  and  will  of  course  send 
you  one. 

This  is  about  the  jolliest  household  I  know  of.  Barrett 
and  his  girls  and  two  boys  are  full  of  romp  and  laugh  all 
day  until  bedtime ;  they  ride,  row,  sail,  and  play  tennis 
every  day.  'T  is  a  very  happy  family,  and  they  have  a 
cozy  little   home   here.      Love   to  both,   and   kisses  for 

baby. 

Papa. 


Detroit,  Sept.  19,  1886. 

'T  is  just  thirty  years  ago  that  I  began  writing  to  your 
dear  mother,  generally  after  the  play,  and  always  on  Sun- 
day, just  as  I  have  been,  and  am  now,  writing  to  you.  It 
seems  very  strange  and  mysterious  to  me  ;  as  though  I 
had  lived  all  those  years  right  on  in  the  same  rut  without 
interruption ;  and  yet  how  many  changes  have  occurred 
during  that  interval !  I  presume  you  are  in  Boston 
now.   .   .   . 

My  first  week  closed  last  night.  The  business  here  was 
good,  not  great.  Many  people  are  out  of  employment ; 
there  are  too  many  cheap  theatres  ;  my  prices  were  higher 
than  usual,  and  several  storms  interfered  with  play-goers. 
I  expect  better  return,  henceforth.  Last  night  I  rec'd  the 
photos  of  "  Boothden  "  that  you  send  from  Franconia. 
The  mill  view  is  excellent.  Why  not  take  the  baby  ?  I 
sat  to  a  photographer  Friday,  but  the  proofs  are  horrid. 

To-morrow,  at  nine  o'clock,  I  take  a  short  trip  to  Bay 
City.  .  .  .  My  health  is  excellent;  I  sleep  and  eat  well, 
and  smoke  first-rate.  I  hope  all  but  the  last  is  the  case 
with  you.   .   .   .  The  leading  lady,  a  young  and  tolerably 


■\ 


EDWIN    BOOTH 


pretty  Gcnu.in  ,i;irl.  is  very  good,  and  will  become  an  ex- 
cellent actress.      Kiss  baby. 

Chicago,  October  9,  1886. 

Yours  of  7th,  acknowledging  mine  from  St.  Paul, 
came  last  night.  I  am  glad  to  know  that  baby  has  begun 
to  crawl ;  don't  put  her  on  her  feet  too  soon  ;  consider  her 
legs  <i  la  bow.  ...  I  closed  my  first  week  here  with  two 
enormous  houses.  A  hard  week's  work  has  greatly  tired 
me.  The  houses  have  been  overcrowded  all  the  week, 
and  every  seat  is  sold  for  the  balance  of  my  engagement. 
I  dine  to-night  with  the  Dunlaps,  relatives  of  Jefferson 
and  Warren.  .  .  .  Warren  always  spends  his  summers 
with  them.  Jefferson  called  and  left  with  me  the  MS. 
of  his  reminiscences,  which  he  has  been  writing.  So  far 
as  he  has  written  it,  it  is  intensely  interesting  and  amus- 
ing, and  well  written  in  a  free  and  chatty  style;  it  will  be 
the  best  autobiography  of  any  actor  yet  published  if  he 
continues  it  in  its  present  form.  I  sent  you  some  book 
notices  from  Mutton's  clippings  for  me.  ...  In  the  arti- 
cle I  send  to-day  you  will  see  that  I  am  gently  touched 
on  the  point  of  the  "old  school  "  ;  my  reference  was  not 
to  the  "  old  style  "  of  acting,  but  the  old  stock  theatre 
as  a  school  —  where  a  beginner  had  the  advantage  of  a 
great  variety  of  experience  in  farces,  as  well  as  tragedies 
and  comedies,  and  a  frequent  change  of  program.  There 
is  no  "  school  "  now;  there  is  a  more  natural  "  style  "  of 
acting,  perhaps,  but  the  novice  can  learn  nothing  from 
long  runs  of  a  single  play.  The  notices  of  my  sketches 
have  been  invariably  encouraging,  and  the  praises  of  my 
acting  immense.  ...  I  sent  a  curious  card  to  baby  en- 
graved with  an  ordinary  penknife.  .  .  .  My  Swiss  waiter 
and  the  chef  from  Delmonico's  at  this  charming  hotel 
almost  weep  because  I  eat  so  little.  My  waiter  says: 
"  y\h.  Misser  Boo,  Madame  M —  is  a  verra  nice  ladee. 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  75 

like  you.  She  do  not  eat,  but  she  smoke  all  time  — 
cigarettes  ;  but  she  is  quiet,  nice  ladee."  He  was  worried 
because  the  "  machinery  "  did  n't  work  well  during  some 
of  the  scenes  one  night,  and  at  suppef,  after  the  play, 
he  abused  "  de  missionary  dat  vos  not  goodt  dere."  I 
thought  he  referred  to  the  domonies  in  the  hotel,  of  whom 
I  told  you.  I  am  as  anxious  as  you  are  to  see  the  book 
with  these  sketches.  I  presume  the  publishers  have  sent 
a  copy  to  Boston.  .  .  .  My  windows  look  out  upon  the 
lake,  and  were  it  not  for  the  railroad  which  runs  along 
its  shore,  the  prospect  would  be  charming ;  the  noise  and 
sometimes  the  smoke  are  rather  objectionable.  The  city 
is  as  crowded  as  New  York,  and  is  very  beautiful  in 
architecture.  Now  I  must  stop,  for  a  dozen  letters  are 
open  before  me,  most  of  which  must  be  answered  to- 
day.  .   .   . 

Professor  Swing  has  not  called,  but  has  been  at  the 
play  several  times.  God  bless  you !  Love  to  all.  Pinch 
Mildred  for  grandpa. 


Chicago,  October  15,  1886. 

...  I  could  not  write  as  I  promised  either  after  the 
play  or  the  next  day,  I  was  so  very  tired.  The  heat  has 
been  intense,  and  the  theatre  so  oppressive,  that  last  night 
{Richard  III)  I  thought  I  would  collapse  several  times. 
To-day  it  rained  and  the  wind  is  howling;  I  suppose  we 
shall  have  a  freezing-spell  now.  Found  a  copy  of  my 
"book"  here:  compared  with  Asia's'  remarks  on  father 
I  think  mine  very  poor;  but  the  sketches  have  been 
pretty  well  praised,  and  as  nobody  but  a  few  friends  will 
ever  read  them,  it  's  all  right.  .  .  .  Jefferson  came  with 
more  of  his  MS.  yesterday,  which  was  even  more  inter- 

'  My  father's  sister,  Mrs.  John  S.  Clarke,  who  had  written  a  life  of  their  father, 
Junius  Brutus  Booth. 


-5  FDWIN    BOOTH 

cstinjT  th.iii  the  first  chapters.  I  start  Sunday  by  special 
train.  Xo  avDid  nit^ht  travel,  at  10:30  A.  M.,  for  St  Louis. 
I  am  loath  to  leave  this  hotel,  where  everything  has 
been  so  comfortable  and  //owry  :  I  'ni  afraid  I  shall  not 
have  such  pleasant  quarters  again,  tho'  doubtless  I  will 
fiml  much  gilded  discomfort:  the  hotels  are,  all  through 
tlie  West,  marvelous  in  their  show.  Am  in  those  all  day 
to  answer  letters,  of  which  I  have  a  deskful.  I  hope 
baby  is  not  suffering.  .  .  .  The  coming  man,  't  is  said, 
will  have  neither  teeth  nor  hair.  Blessed  coming  man ! 
Love  to  all.     God  bless  you  ! 

Papa. 


[  tl^n'tt^H  by  Mr.  Booth  to  his  granddaughter,  seven  and  a  half  months  old.'\ 

New  York,  November  13,  1886. 
MV    DKAK    LITTLE    "  GOO-A-GOO  "  : 

Until  I  found  your  sweet  reminder,  I  had  not  thought 
how  old  I  really  am.  Fifty-three — just  think  of  it!  And 
try  to  imagine  how  you  will  look  and  feel  when  you  catch 
up  to  me,  and  your  little  granddaughter  reminds  you  of 
the  fact  that  you  are  older  than  you  are  at  present ;  and 
make  an  extra  endeavor  to  recall  your  grandad  when  he 
was  no  bigger  and  no  older  than  you.  Ain't  it  funny  to 
think  of?  Lots  of  folk  have  seen  your  pretty  little  paper- 
weight, and  I  've  shown  them  your  picture,  "  baby  on 
the  half-shell,"  just  ready  to  be  peppered  and  salted  and 
swallowed.  Mrs.  B —  and  Mrs.  H —  came  home  full  of  your 
praises,  and  say  that  your  mama  is  a  cunning  little  house- 
keeper. .  .  .  Your  old  fifty-three  grandpa  has  not  been 
very  well  the  past  week,  but  is  all  right  now,  although  his 
head  ached  all  day,  much  as  it  did  the  day  he  was  born. 
Many  folks  have  sent  me  lots  of  lovely  flowers ;  the  room 
is  fully  decorated  with  them;  besides  baskets  of  fruit, 
jellies,  and  good  things,  also  a  poem,  which  you  can  read 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  ^^ 

quite  as  intelligently  as  I  —  I  don't  quite  get  the  "hang 
of  it."  One  anonymous  lady  sent  me  a  tapioca  pudding; 
perhaps  she  thought  you  were  here. 

I  shall  keep  quiet  on  my  pillows  all  day  to-morrow, 
because  the  doctor  says  my  "  ittle  tummy  "  must  not  be 
tired  by  sitting  up  or  walking  until  Monday  night,  when 
my  work  will  begin  again. 

I  have  sat  up  quite  awhile  over  this,  for  I  wanted  to 
make  it  small  and  neat  to  fit  you,  and  as  it  is  very  warm, 
and  my  head  still  aches,  and  my  fifty-three  eyes  are  quite 
dim,  I  must  say  goo-ni-a-gee  pretty  soon. 

You  and  I  eat  just  the  same  kind  of  food — plain  milk 
mostly,  only  you  take  it  from  a  bottle,  which  I  've  given 
up ;  it  's  a  bad  habit.      Now  bye-bye,  ba-bee. 

With  kisses  for  mama  and  oo,  and  love  for  all. 

Grandpa. 


New  York,  November,  1886. 

...  I  have  just  rec'd  your  letter  with  slips  in- 
closed.  .   .   . 

My  reception  was  great  last  night,  and  a  better  house. 
I  send  you  a  lot  of  notices  from  yesterday's  papers.  .  .  . 
The  weather  is  lovely,  but  too  warm  for  acting.  Barrett 
and  I  are  going  to  try  a  double-team  spurt  next  season ; 
act  together  on  a  short  tour.  .   .   . 

A —  sends  word  that  all  goes  well,  but  the  "  hens  ain't 
a-doin'  much  in  the  eg^  line."  I  shall  tell  him  to  feed 
'cm  on  "  egg-plant."  It  's  in  one  sense  well  that  baby 
shows  her  will  power,  but  she  should  be  taught  early 
that  hers  must  be  subservient  to  her  parents'  and  elders', 
otherwise  she  '11  cause  much  regret.  You  can't  begin 
too  early  to  teach  children  who  is  "  boss,"  particularly 
female  babies.  As  in  womanhood,  they  presume  a  great 
deal  on  their  sex. 


78  EDWIN   BOOTH 

Viuir  idea  of  the  album  for  Mildred  is  excellent,  but  I 
(.]o  not  think  there  are  photos  of  me  in  character,  except 
//</;//A/.  Rii/u-lifit,  and  lago. 

If  the  hook  with  my  sketches  of  Kean  and  father  has 
arrivcil.and  you  still  have  the  article  that  I  sent  from  "The 
Kvcniny[  I'ost,"  October  30,  paste  the  letter  inside  the 
front  cover  of  the  book,  and  add  the  name  and  date  of  the 
paper;  it  will  add  interest  to  the  volume.  My  dinner  is 
conlinL,^  and  I  must  hurry  up  with  this,  as  it  is  later  than 
I  usually  dine.  .  .  .  Newspaper  reports  from  Boston  say 
that  Wilson  l^arrett's  Hamlet  has  captured  the  town,  etc. 
I  believe  that  I  follow  him  there,  but  at  another  theatre, 
if  he  is  still  there,  as  I  think  he  will  be  during  my  first 
week.  Have  not  yet  seen  the  great  statue,^  which  I 
want  to  see,  and  must,  before  I  leave  New  York. 

I  think  that  's  about  all  I  have  on  board.  I  hope  you 
are  well  and  that  baby  has  not  yet  eaten  the  bottle.  I 
am  very  glad  that  your  housekeeping  gives  you  no  care. 

Love  for  all.     God  bless  you ! 

Papa. 


Palace  Hotel,  San  Francisco, 
Sunday  night,  March  5,  1887. 

...  I  have  just  wired  you  of  my  safe  arrival  between 
five  and  six  this  evening,  having  hired  a  special  engine  to 
bring  me  here  last  night  after  the  play,  instead  of  taking 
the  regular  train  to-day,  and  risking  delay  and  the  great 
fatigue  of  acting  to-morrow  night  after  several  hours' 
journey.  Your  letter  of  February  28  was  here  in  answer 
to  mine  from  Houston,  "on  board  the  car."  I  hope  to 
get  later  news  from  you,  but  of  course  could  not  except 
by  wire,  and  as  no  telegram  has  come,  I  am  in  hope  that 
all  is  well. 

1  Statue  of  Liberty. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  79 

...  I  found  my  room  here  profusely  and  charmingly 
decorated  with  camellias  of  various  hues,  some  I  never 
saw  before ;  vines  of  maidenhair  fern  from  every  point 
from  which  it  could  be  gracefully  hung;  delicate  vines 
and  tiny  ferns  and  flowers  pinned  to  the  lace  curtains  and 
a  tall  affair  bearing  a  flag  or  pillow  of  camellias  and  other 
exquisite  flowers  of  various  colors;  "Booth"  and  the 
word  "  Welcome "  in  massed  violets  upon  it.  I  can't 
describe  the  beautiful  display.  Several  cards  bound  with 
black  attracted  my  notice,  and  I  found  that  all  this  was 
done  by  the  mother  and  sister  of  Samuel  Piercy.i  you 
remember,  who  died  of  smallpox  in  Boston,  when  we  and 
most  of  the  company  were  vaccinated.   .   .   . 

I  begin  with  "  Hamlet "  (for  a  week's  run)  to-morrow, 
and  the  box-office  indications  are  very  great. 

God  bless  you !      Kiss  baby.  Papa. 


Booth-Bay,  July  27,  1887. 

.  .  .  After  a  fog  of  several  days'  continuance,  through 
which,  however,  we  made  good  sailing,  we  reached  Port- 
land last  night.  We  took  carriages,  and  drove  ten  miles  to 
Scarborough,  the  place  Barrett  and  I  visited  last  summer  in 
a  fog,  and  found  it  in  just  the  same  condition.  We  found 
several  acquaintances  there,  among  them  Mrs.  Raymond 
(formerly  Miss  Gary,  the  singer),  and  had  a  pleasant  two 
hours'  visit.  Then  through  a  dense  fog  back  to  the  yacht. 
Started  this  morning,  and  had  to  anchor  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  when  the  sun  came  to  our  relief,  and  we  sailed 
through  fairy-land,  with  beautiful  islands  on  each  hand; 
then  to  the  open  sea  for  an  hour.  The  fog  soon  reap- 
peared, and  to  escape  it,  we  came  into  this  harbor,  one  of 
the  prettiest  in  the  world,  dotted  with  lovely  little  islands, 
which  contain  beautiful  villas.     'T   is  a  most  delightful 

1  Mr.  Piercy  was  then  supporting  my  fatlier  as  leading-man. 


8o  EDWIN   BOOTH 

pl.icc.  It  (this  stop)  defers  our  making  Bar  Harbor,  where 
wc  expected  to  be  to-night ;  and  if  the  day  to-morrow  is 
clear,  we  will  reach  it  before  evening.  We  may  stop 
tliere  two  days.  I  expect  letters  there — one  from  you. 
Si)  \\iv  ivcrythiiig  has  been  superb.  Barrett,  Bispham, 
and  Benedict  sing  well  and  much,  while  Aldrich  is  kept 
at  a  white  heat  of  fun  by  Hutton.  It  is  very  jolly  and 
comfortable  in  every  way.  I  will  not  mail  this  until  I 
reach  liar  Harbor;  then  I  hope  to  receive  your  letter, 
and  may  have  more  to  say  about  the  cruise.  I  don't 
know  for  whom  this  bay  and  town  were  named,  but,  of 
course,  it  is  settled  by  the  boys  aboard  that  I  am  entitled 
to  the  honor.  I  think  the  trip  is  doing  us  all  much  good  ; 
the  change  in  Barrett  is  really  wonderful.  He  's  now  full 
of  life,  and  sings  clearly. 

The  fog  seems  to  keep  out  of  this  harbor,  and  all  is 
bright,  but  I  presume  the  pilot  will  keep  us  here  till  the 
horizon  is  clear;  as  there  is  no  haste,  we  shall  not  venture 
near  the  shadow  of  risk.  .  .  .  After  Bar  Harbor,  we  will 
go  to  Campobello,  and  then  to  Halifax  for  coal ;  then  we 
will  determine  if  we  have  time  for  a  trip  to  Labrador,  or 
must  retrace  our  path  homeward.   .  .  . 

I  hope  you  and  the  babies  keep  as  well  as  when  I  saw 
you. 


Buffalo,  September  12,  1887. 
"  After  Caesar." 

...  As  I  have  a  rehearsal  this  morning  I  might  miss 
the  early  mail,  and  therefore  write  now  to  avoid  delay.  I 
wired  you  Sunday,  shortly  after  my  arrival,  not  at  all 
fatigued,  having  slept  well  all  Saturday  night  on  the  car. 
We  opened  to-night  to  a  jammed  house,  and  the  play 
went  admirably,  all  company  doing  well.  As  Antony 
said,  "This  ivas  the  noblest  Roman  of  them  all,"  a  mur- 


pnwiN  BOOTH  IN  i8i;4. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  8 1 

mur  and  subdued  applause  went  through  the  house.  It 
was  not  at  all  merited,  for  Barrett  did  far  better  than  I, 
who,  unfamiliar  (to  a  certain  extent)  with  the  part,  had  to 
feel  my  way  continuously  and,  I  fancy,  tamely,  through 
the  text.  However,  the  audience  was  delighted  with 
everything,  and  we  consider  it  a  splendid  beginning  for 
the  season.  Hamlet  to-morrow,  lago  next.  This  is  the 
same  room  I  had  last  year.  ...  I  hope,  dear,  that  you 
and  the  babies  continue  well,  and  that  you  will  enjoy 
many,  many  happy  years  in  your  charming  little  home. 
Love  to  you  all.   .   .   . 

Good  night.     God  bless  you !      It  is  late. 

Papa. 

P.  S.   Barrett  is  in  the  seventh  heaven. 


Minneapolis,  September  25,  1887. 

.  .  ,  Since  my  despatch  to  you  I  have  received  your 
three  letters;  one  had  been  delayed  at  Detroit.  To-day 
I  hope  you  are  comfortably  settled  in  your  new  home, 
where  I  trust  you  may  have  great  happiness.  Last  night 
my  engagement  closed  with  a  crowded  house ;  it  has  been 
an  extraordinary  week  of  great  success.  .  .  .  We  do  not 
leave  until  8  A.M.  to-morrow  for  Duluth.  The  "  crickets  " 
[critics]  here  persistently  "  go  for  "  my  antiquity,  while 
praising  me  otherwise.  .  .  .  Poor  Hammyi  must  soon  be 
laid  away  in  camphor  in  a  dark  corner  cupboard.   ... 

I  have  a  cold  that  checks  my  breathing,  and  I  sit  with 
my  mouth  agape  like  a  blooming  idiot ;  I  took  cold  here 
last  season  about  this  time  of  year.  The  temperature 
seems  to  keep  time  with  Newport  in  its  ups  and  downs. 
When  you  wrote  of  clear  autumnal  days  I  wore  my  over- 
coat and  enjoyed  the  delicious  fall  weather.  After  this 
week  I  shall  have  a  stop  of  three  weeks  in  Chicago,  with 

1 1  lam  let. 


82  EDWIN    BOOTH 

no  rehearsals  ami  infrequent  chanijes  of  bill.  We  hope 
to  yjet  a  run  of  "  Caesar  "  and  of  "  Othello  "  ;  Brutus  and 
liii::o  beini;  tjuiet  parts,  I  shall  have  comparatively  an  easy 
time.  My  iloini;  the  fifth  act  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Ven- 
ice," with  some  new  scenes,  dresses,  etc.,  we  may  get 
several  nit^hts  and  the  matinees  out  of  SJiylock  also,  the 
three  easiest  of  my  characters.  This  city  seems  to  grow 
more  beautiful  every  year;  one  of  the  prettiest  parks  of 
seventeen  acres  lies  in  the  heart  of  the  town,  and  the  re- 
sidences are  very  picturesque.  The  land  is  undulating, 
trees  are  abundant,  and  lawns  charming.  The  winters  are 
liMig  and  cold,  however;  but  they  have  rare  sport  in 
sleighing,  etc.  If  I  were  twenty  years  younger,  I  would 
settle  here.   .   .   . 

I  want  to  see  Florida,  also,  very  much,  and  to  visit  Jef- 
ferson's island,  too ;  both  trips  must  be  made  in  winter  or 
autumn. 


Chicago,  Oct.  i6,  1887. 

I  acknowledged  your  tenth  letter  on  a  card,  which  I 
inclose  with  some  "pufifs,"  t'  other  day;  now  I  '11  answer 
it.  .  .  . 

Under  the  worst  circumstances,  try  to  regard  the  an- 
noyances of  life  as  merely  temporary  ills,  and  remember 
that  sunlight  will  soon  dispel  the  clouds,  and  don't  worry ! 
I  have  seriously  thought  of  having  placed  near  my  bed, 
where  I  can  see  it  when  retiring  and  when  I  arise,  a 
placard  inscribed,  in  glaring  letters,  the  words  "  DON'T 
WORRY."  ...  It  is  about  the  last  thought  in  my  mind 
at  sleep-time  and  the  first  at  awakening,  and  it  is  surpris- 
ing what  good  effect  it  has;  I  sleep  well  and  work  better 
for  it. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  83 

Chicago,  October  19,  1887. 

.  .  .  The  production  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice " 
Monday  night  was  superb  and  finely  acted,  and  Miss  Gale's 
Portia  made  the  comedy  delightful,  while  the  beautiful 
scenery  and  costumes  gave  exquisite  effect  to  the  casket 
scene,  and  the  last  act  in  the  moonlight  garden.  Yet  the 
attendance  fell  oflF  one-half,  a  perfect  "  slump,"  owing, 
I  presume,  to  the  fact  that  for  many  years  the  play  has 
been  cut  down  to  SJiylock's  scenes,  and  has  always  been 
given  with  another  piece,  which,  of  course,  has  weakened 
its  effectiveness;  but  I  think  it  will  soon  become  known 
as  one  of  our  strongest  plays.  Barrett  is  very  earnest 
and  devoted,  and  works  like  a  horse  over  the  rehearsals, 
showing  good  taste  and  thorough  knowledge  of  stage 
management,  and  is  sincerely  proud  of  his  work.  The 
return  to  "  Caesar "  last  night  brought  up  the  receipts 
again.  That  play  should  have  been  kept  on  at  least  two 
weeks.  .  .  .  Have  no  news  from  you.  Am  now  going 
for  a  stroll  with  Barrett.  We  walk  an  hour  each  day. 
God  bless  you !      Love  to  all. 

Papa. 


Kansas  City,  October  27,  1887. 
.  .  .  Yours  of  2 1st,  forwarded  from  Chicago,  came  yes- 
terday. .  .  The  New  York had  an  article  on  "Ham- 
let "  last  Saturday;  if  it  is  not  "  chambermaided  "  I  '11 
send  it  to  you.  It  praises  the  performance.  ...  I  told 
you  in  my  last  that  the  theatre  here  was  roofless,  and 
otherwise  unfit  for  use.  It  was  little  better  Tuesday 
night.  At  nine  o'clock  at  night  there  were  fifty  work- 
men removing  lumber,  driving  nails,  and  doing  all  sorts 
of  work,  amid  a  perfect  whirlwind  of  noise,  and  freezing 
blasts  of  wind.  At  ten  o'clock  a  half-scene  and  a  red 
sheet  were  drawn  aside,  and  the  play  ("  Othello  ")  began, 


S^  i:d\vin  booth 

to  about  seventy- five  people  in  hats,  overcoats,  and  heavy 
fur  wraps,  most  o(  \vh(Mn  left  as  the  play  prot^ressed,  unable 
t«>  endure  the  cold.  N(U  a  door  was  in  its  place,  and  the 
skv  was  in  full  view  above  the  auditorium  and  part  of 
the  stai^e.  We  could  use  but  one  scene,  an  interior,  and 
that  we  used  throui;hout  the  entire  play,  out  doors  and 
ill.  It  was  a  freezing  performance.  Next  day  (yester- 
tlay)  we  tried  "  C:esar  "  for  a  matinee.  This  was  given  to 
make  up  for  the  loss  of  Monday  night.  One  scene  (a 
street)  served  for  the  Capitol,  Brutus  tent,  the  Forum, 
ami  the  fields  of  Philippi — about  sixteen  cold  boys  and 
girls  in  front.  Last  night  we  had  some  stoves,  a  tarpau- 
lin cover  for  a  roof,  several  scenes,  and  played  "Hamlet" 
to  about  two  hundred  people. 

The    house   should    not   have   been    opened    for   three 

months,  but  the  wealthy had  vowed  it  should  open 

this  week  with  Booth  and  liarrett,  and  having  paid  us 
a  large  certainty,  and  sold  a  great  many  tickets  at  five 
dollars  per  head,  the  promise  w^as  kept  with  only  the 
delay  of  one  night.  The  hotel  we  are  at  is  not  much 
better,  but  a  warm  wave  is  on,  and  I  keep  well  and  take 
care  of  my  bones.  ...  I  send  a  satin  program  of  the 
first  night  that  was  to  be,  and  did  n't. 

Don't  spare  the  spanks,  and  don't  be  too  easily  coaxed 
into  forgiveness.  Young  ones  are  cute  in  such  tricks. 
Love  to  all.     In  a  hurry. 


New  York,  January  5,  li 

...  I  've  seen  Rose  several  times,  and  shall  say  good- 
bye to-morrow.  I  do  all  I  can  for  her,  but  nothing  on  earth 
can  render  her  lonely  life  less  weary,  poor  soul !  As  for 
God's  reward  for  what  I  have  done,  I  can  hardly  appre- 
ciate it ;  't  is  more  like  punishment  for  misdeeds  (of  which 
I  'vc  done  many)  than  grace  for  good  ones  (if  I  've'done 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  85 

any).  Homelessness  is  the  actor's  fate  —  physical  inca- 
pacity to  attain  what  is  most  required  and  desired  by 
such  a  spirit  as  I  am  slave  to.  If  there  be  rewards,  I 
certainly  am  well  paid  ;  but  hard  schooling  in  life's  thank- 
less lessons  has  made  me  somewhat  of  a  philosopher,  and 
I  've  learned  to  take  the  buffets  and  rewards  of  fortune 
with  equal  thanks,  and  in  suffering  all  to  suffer — I  won't 
say  nothing,  but  comparatively  little.  Dick  Stoddard 
wrote  a  poem  called  "The  King's  Bell,"  which  fits  my 
case  exactly  (you  may  have  read  it).  He  dedicated  it  to 
Lorimer  Graham,  who  never  knew  an  unhappy  day  in 
his  brief  life,  instead  of  to  me,  who  never  knew  a  really 
happy  one.  You  must  n't  suppose  from  this  that  I  'm  ill 
in  mind  or  body :  on  the  contrary,  I  am  well  enough 
in  both ;  nor  am  I  a  pessimist.  I  merely  wanted  you  to 
know  that  the  sugar  of  my  life  is  bitter-sweet ;  perhaps 
not  more  so  than  every  man's  whose  experience  has  been 
above  and  below  the  surface.  .  .  .  Business  has  continued 
large,  and  increases  a  little  every  night.  The  play  will 
run  two  weeks  longer.  Sunday,  at  four  o'clock,  I  start 
for  Baltimore,  arriving  there  at  ten  o'clock.   .   .   . 

To-morrow  a  meeting  of  actors,  managers,  and  artists, 
at  breakfast,  to  discuss  and  organize,  if  possible,  a  the- 
atrical club  like  the  "  Garrick  "  of  London.' 

God  bless  you!      Kiss  the  kids. 


"On  Board,"  January  26,  \\ 

I  am  now  en  route  to  Memphis,  having  closed  my 
Nashville  engagement  last  night.  A  beautiful  theatre, 
crowded  every  night  with  beautiful  women  and  flowers. 
Your  letter  "  after  the  ball  "  reached  me  there.     I  am  so 

IThis  resulted  in  my  father's  founding  the  Players'  Club,  which  was  ready 
and  inaugurated  at  the  close  of  that  same  year. 

6* 


80  EDWIN   BOOTH 

^lad  it  was  a  success,  ami  that  the  young  ones  did  not 
intiMiupt  the  fun.  Yes,  Harry  1^ —  is  a  very  nice  fellow, 
and  1  've  no  iloulit  I  shall  enjoy  his  company.  He  and 
Harrctt  are  old  Iriends.  The  car  jerks  me  occasionally, 
and  it  is  diHicult  to  write.  Barrett  and  I  strolled  into  the 
i>|)en  \-ard  oi  President  Polk's  house,  to  read  the  inscrip- 
tion on  his  tomb,  w  hicli  stands  near  the  front  stoop  (he 
was  burieil  there  forty  years  ago),  when  a  young  man 
came  out  and  .said  that  Mrs.  Polk  invited  us  in.  (I  must 
give  this  up  till  the  car  stops — it  is  not  possible  to  write 
now.) 

Memphis,  Friday. 

The  road  was  too  rougii  for  writing  on  the  car,  and 
I  was  too  tiretl  after  the  play  last  night.  To-day  it  is 
bright  and  cold.  I  have  a  pain  in  my  back  and  "  on  my 
forehead  here,"  the  result  of  yesterday's  shake  and  a 
leaky  window  near  my  bed.  It  will  soon  pass  oflf.  Old 
Mrs.  Polk  was  most  delightful.  A  grand,  stately  dame  of 
eighty-five,  full  of  smiles  and  courtly  grace,  gloved  and 
frilled  in  the  true  old  Southern  style,  leaning  on  a  silver 
crutch-headed  cane.  Delighted  with  all  improvements 
of  the  age,  but  prefers  to  keep  her  old  mansion  and  its 
curious  and  interesting  belongings  just  as  they  were  forty 
years  ago,  when  the  President  died.  We  sent  her  some 
flowers,  and  she  wrote  her  thanks  in  a  firmer  and  clearer 
hand  than  mine.  She  has  a  lovely  grand-niece,  who,  the 
old  lady  whispered,  had  bouquets  for  us,  etc. 

We  had  enormous  and  beautiful  audiences  there  (Nash- 
ville), and  last  night  we  opened  here  to  a  crowded  house. 
The  papers  are  .so  crowded  with  our  "  pufT  "  and  other 
dramatic  stuff'  that  I  can't  read  'em,  and  will  let  you  have 
them  to  pick  and  choose  from.   .   .   . 

This  theatre  is  beastly,  and  the  city  a  huge  mud-hole, 
but  the  hotel  food  is  good  (our  breakfast  was)  and  I  get 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  8/ 

a  bath,  which  my  car  does  not  afford.  We  resume  our 
journey  Sunday  morning.  I  have  bought  a  few  portraits 
of  old  actors  from  Mrs.  Owens  for  the  collection  I  intend 
leaving  to  the  Actors'  Club  [called  "The  Players"]  when 
a  suitable  house  is  secured  for  such  treasures.  I  have  no 
news.  Hope  your  babies  will  not  be  affected  by  the  cold, 
which,  I  am  told,  is  very  severe  in  Boston,  and  New  York 
also.     Kiss  the  babies  for  "  Ba-Ba-Boo." 

Papa. 


Boston,  July  14,  i: 

...  I  passed  your  house  the  other  day ;  the  vines 
nearly  covered  it.  It  is  very  lovely,  and  in  a  few  years  (I 
mean  the  view)  will  be  superb.  "  Beautiful  Boston"  will 
surpass  all  other  cities  of  the  world  in  a — well,  when  Mil- 
dred's little  grandson  wears  pants — a  garment  I  shall  then 
have  no  need  for.  I  '11  be  a  cherub,  with  side-whisker 
wings,  but  nothing  to  put  trousers  on.  Alas,  for  the 
brevity  of  life  —  and  cherubs! 

Barrett  is  gone  for  a  week,  perhaps  a  month,  he  says, 
to  Richfield  (Sulphur)  Springs.  I  fear  his  disease  is 
serious  to  health,  as  well  as  to  looks,  but  he  seems  hope- 
ful in  his  letters.  Have  not  seen  him ;  he  started  before  I 
returned  from  Greenwich.  Jefferson  asks  me  to  visit  him 
at  Buzzard's  Bay,  not  far  from  Newport,  I  believe.  Love 
for  all.  Be  careful  of  your  horse  in  hot  weather.  At 
David's  age  he  may  have  what  is  termed  "  blind  stag- 
gers "  if  overheated;   avoid  the  hot  hours,  and  drive  in 

the  cool  evening. 

Grandpa. 

16  Gramercy  Park,  New  York, 

Tuesday,  Sept.  19,  1888. 

Your  two  letters  received.    Have  just  wired  you  that 
I  must  leave  Saturday  at  three  o'clock,  which  will  get  me 


SS  KDWIX    BOOTH 

to  Louisville  Siiiulay  evening,  and  I  must  have  a  rest  be- 
(orc  hf^inning  Monday.  Very  sorry.  .  .  .  Ever  since  I 
left  \-ou,  1  've  sulVered  from  the  heat  and  humidity  of 
the  atmosphere  ;  yesterday  it  was  horrible,  and  I  could 
hardly  pull  throui^h  rehearsal  —  I  was  wet  with  perspi- 
ration all  day  and  night.  It  is  still  hot  and  damp,  but 
better  than  it  has  been  the  last  few  days. 

Tin-  Iklair  ladies  sent  me  a  panel  of  wood  from  the 
old  cherr\-tree  in  whose  sliade  I  was  born  (planted  by 
my  father),  and  the  wife  of  the  present  owner  of  the  farm 
painted  a  sprig  with  cherries,  and  two  Baltimore  orioles, 
on  it.  The  letter  accompanying  it  is  very  charming  and 
old-fashioned  in  its  style. 

Barrett's  face  looks  more  swollen  than  ever,  but  his 
color  is  better,  and  he  is  in  good  condition  for  work. 
The  lumps  are  loose  and  softer,  and  he  has  confidence  in 
the  cure  ;  but  I  think  he  will  have  to  go  back  to  the 
baths  next  season.  He  sends  kind  regards.  Tell  the 
babies  grandpa  has  been  looking  all  over  New  York  for 
them,  but  can't  find  them  anywhere.  Give  them  lots 
of  kisses  for  me.   .   .   . 

Chicago,  Sept.  24,  1888. 

...  I  reached  this  city  Sunday  (yesterday)  about  one 
o'clock,  and  have  excellent  rooms'  and  food  at  the  Grand 
Pacific  Hotel.  Before  leaving  St.  Paul  I  received  the 
news  of  Dr.  Kellogg's'  sudden  death  (apoplexy);  he  was 
buried  yesterday.  To-day  dear  Warren  was  put  to  earth. 
Within  a  month  Davidge,  Wallack,  Warren,  and  Kellogg 
have  made  their  last  exeunt !  One  other  I  forgot — New- 
ton Gothold ;  all  actors  save  the  doctor,  and  he  a  great 
Shaksperian  scholar  and  theatre-lover.  To-night  I  begin 
with  Brutus,  with  some  new  scenic  effects — burning  the 

'  Dr.  Kellogg,  Superintendent  of  the  Asylum  for  the  Insane,  at  Poughkeepsie, 
New  York. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  89 

body  of  Brutus,  anthem,  etc.  After  the  play,  or  to-mor- 
row, I  '11  write  you  how  it  goes,  or  zvent.  The  produc- 
tion of  "  Mer:  of  Venice  "  next  week  will  be  superb — as 
to  scenery  and  costumes.   .  .  . 

The  fever  will  ruin  business  in  the  South  ;  we  do  not  go 
nearer  than  Memphis  to  the  infected  district,  and  will  not 
go  there  if  there  is  the  least  doubt  of  its  approach ;  so 
don't  be  anxious  on  my  account.   .   .  . 

I  will  now  lay  this  by  till  after  the  play,  and  take  my 
nap,  if  callers  will  let  me  have  it. 

Tuesday 

It  was  too  late  to  write  after  the  play  last  night,  and  I 
was  rather  weary.  The  house  was  full,  not  crowded  ;  the 
performance  satisfactory.  On  the  funeral  pyre — after 
Brutus  s  body  had  been  "  closed  in  "  by  a  drop-scene  on 
which  was  painted  an  urn,  inverted  torches,  &c. — an  ex- 
cellent representation  of  myself,  in  papier-mache,  was  dis- 
covered in  profile  ;  it  was  an  excellent  likeness,  made  by 
our  property-man.  An  anthem  was  well  sung,  and  all 
went  well.  .  .  .  To-day  is  quite  cold,  wet,  and  gloomy. 
We  have  canceled  our  engagement  at  Memphis  and 
Nashville  on  account  of  the  fev^er  scare,  and  must  alter 
our  dates  accordingly;  it  may  bring  me  home  earlier  than 
I  expected;  maybe  not.  Kiss  the  babies.  God  bless 
them !  .  .   . 

Chicago,  October  7,  1888. 

.  .  .  This  is  Sunday  again,  and  a  bright  lovely  one  it 
is ;  even  through  the  filthy  air  of  this  smoky  place  the 
sun  can  be  seen  —  rather  a  rarity  here  nowadays.  It 
is  the  very  dirtiest  of  all  the  soft-coal  cities.  The  "  Shy- 
lock  "  week  closed  finely  last  night,  but  bad  weather  and 
politics  told  against  us  materially.      The  latter  will,  I  'm 


QO  KinVIN    BOOTH 

pretty  sure,  prevent  cnir  fillini;  the  fever  week.  I  guess 
we  'II  start  for  Boston  at  the  close  of  the  St.  Louis  en- 
•jai^ement,  and  be  there  about  the  30th  of  this  month,  for 
;i  week's  rest,  before  beginning  the  New  York  term.   .   .   . 

You  speak  of  a  Mrs.  somebody  (I  can't  even  guess  at 
the  name)  having  called,  to  your  surprise,  and  that  she 
looks  better,  etc.      I  'm  very  glad  to  know  it.   .   .   . 

"  Let  the  world  slide  ...  for  we  shall  ne'er  be  younger," 
is  what  Shakspere  advises  anent  the  petty  miseries  of  life. 
Here  's  some  of  mine  (petty  miseries,  I  mean):  I  'vc  had 
toothache  and  jicadachc,  swelled  jaw  and  dyspepsia  since 
I  left  home,  until  now  ;  now  I  'm  physically  all  right,  but 
financially  annoyed.  It  is  likely  that  our  first  week's 
earnings  will  be  lost  by  the  break  of  The  Trader's  Bank 
here,  and  the  chances  are  that  some  $9000  will  lessen  my 
bank  account ;  a  few  days  will  decide  it.  The  case  is  in 
a  lawyer's  hands,  but  he  thinks  the  concern  is  thoroughly 
rotten.  The  president  of  the  bank  died  the  day  after  it 
went  up,  but  not  from  that  cause.   .   .   . 

It  is  cold  enough  here  for  winter  clothes  and  fires. 

God  bless  you  !     Kiss  the  babies.  .  .   . 


New  York,  November  14,  1888. 

...  I  could  not  write  yesterday,  as  I  intended,  for  the 
whole  day  was  a  whirl  until  long  after  midnight.  Your 
most  welcome  portrait  came  to  greet  me  first  —  the 
previous  day,  in  fact,  and  that  pleased  me  very  much. 
It  does  not  do  you  justice,  but  't  is  a  fine  piece  of  work. 
Flowers  and  fruits  from  many  quarters,  a  little  gold  pencil 

from  D ,  and  some  silk  handkerchiefs  from  Barrett. 

I  must  have  had  a  hundred  dozen  silk  handkerchiefs  given 
me  at  various  times  by  different  persons.   .   ,   . 

I  've  had  an  irreparable  loss  in  the  midst  of  all  this  fun  ; 
the  dear  little  knife  your  mother  gave  me  twenty-seven 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  9 1 

years  ago,  and  which  I  've  always  carried  about  with  me, 
is  gone  !  I  think  I  dropped  it  at  supper  Saturday  night  .  .  . 
at  Delmonico's ;  they  have  searched  in  vain  for  it.  I 
never  missed  anything  so  much.  The  pictures  of  babies 
amuse  and  dehght  every  one  that  calls,  and  to  all  of 
whom  I  exhibit  them.   .   .   . 

Our  engagement  has  begun  finely,  and  looks  as  if  it 
will  become  much  better,  only  the  upper  galleries  being 
deficient;  all  good  seats  and  boxes  are  engaged  for  days 
in  advance.  Some  flowers  came  from  Mildred,  too.  My 
room  is  a  bower  of  roses  and  choicest  flowers  of  all 
sorts.   .   .   . 

"  The  Players  "  is  already  popular  with  the  very  best 
sort  of  folk,  and  there  are  more  appHcants  for  member- 
ship than  we  can  possibly  accept.  I  've  rambled  on,  and 
hurriedly  told  you  all  I  know,  constantly  interrupted  while 
I  write.  God  bless  you  !  Keep  well,  and  don't  worry 
about  anything.     Bless  the  babies  !     Love  to  all.  .  .  . 

Papa. 


Elmira,  Dec.  29,  i; 

...  I  write  to-night  merely  to  say  what  I  forgot  in 
my  last.  A  crayon  of  me  will  arrive.  ...  It  is  an  ex- 
cellent thing,  and  I  bought  it  to  help  the  young  artist 
along.  .  .  .  That  's  one  thing :  the  next  is.  Collier  has 
sent  the  "Richelieu,"  and  it  is  in  the  Custom-House ;  I 
am  required  to  fill  out  a  blank  of  certain  statements,  and  I 
am  puzzled.  Can  you  say  positively  when  we  last  returned 
from  England,  and  the  name  of  the  steamer?  I  forget  if 
it  was  in  1883  or  1884,  and  if  we  came  on  the  Gallia  or 
the  Scythia. 

I  am  glad  you  had  a  happy  Christmas,  and  that  baby 
enjoyed  her  tree  and  the  chain  ;  I  was  lucky  in  getting 


9^ 


r.inVlN    BOOTH 


/<»«  somcthint;  useful.      It  is  so  difficult  to  select  anything 
for  one  who  has  hat!  so  many  toys  bestowed  on  her. 

I  opened  here  to-nii^ht  to  a  tremendous  house — my 
first  visit,  'riure  was  almost  a  serious  riot  in  Rochester 
over  the  sale  of  my  tickets  six  days  before  I  opened. 

It  was  a  very  strange  sight  yesterday  at  Bradford — so 
many  derricks  and  oil-tanks  (hundreds  of  them),  covering 
the  hills  and  valleys  for  many  miles  in  every  direction,  to- 
gether with  the  natural  gas-wells,  horrid  stuff,  which  is 
used  for  lighting,  heating,  and  cooking,  too :  it  is  so 
plent)'  that  people  pay  so  much  a  month,  and  use  as 
much  as  they  like,  and  waste  it  freely.  People  there, 
and  here,  come  from  distant  towns  by  special  trains  to 
see  me,  and  crowd  the  hotels  and  streets.  I  am  *'  boom- 
ing" these  towns  at  a  terrific  rate.  To-morrow  I  start 
for  Scranton,  a  coal  region,  and  shall  soon  be  off  the  rail 
for  a  little  while  in  the  larger  cities.     Good  night. 

Papa. 


The  Players,  i6  Gramercy  Park, 

New  York,  Jan.  i,  1889. 
Happie  Newe  Yeare  ! 

God  bless  you,  darling,  and  all  of  you  !  The  thought 
of  your  not  being  well  alone  marred  my  full  enjoyment 
of  last  night's  delightful  success — the  culmination  of  my 
professional  hopes.  I  cannot  describe  the  universal  joy 
that  pervaded  all  hearts  present,  the  sympathy  expressed, 
and  the  entire  success  of  everything — except  my  speech. 
I  broke  down  towards  the  close  of  it,  but  it  passed  off 
with  eclat.  Everything  else  v^^s,  perfect — the  clock,  with 
deep  cathedral  tones,  tolled  twelve  in  the  midst  of  Bar- 
rett's reading  of  your  blessed  letter  —  just  in  time,  as 
though  it  had  been  prearranged.  White,  the  architect, 
went  into  ecstasies  at  the  success  of  everything,  and  ex- 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  93 

claimed,  "  Even  the  log  burned  without  smoking,"  which 
we  feared  it  would  not  do  in  the  new  chimney. 

I  suspected  that  Barrett  had  a  poem  to  read,  but  the 
dear  letter  was  a  happy  surprise,  and  the  wreath  and  your 
apt  quotation  on  the  card  were  delightful.^  You  got  as 
much  applause  as  I  did.  I  wired  Dr.  Parsons  of  his  suc- 
cess. Several  were  here  from  Boston.  Harry  Burnett 
and  Mr.  Wendell,  Fairchild  and  others,  were  prevented 
from  coming;  so  was  Furness,  so  was  Jefferson,  but  all 
sent  messages.  Barrett  and  I  got  to  bed  about  five  o'clock 
this  A.  M.,  but  got  little  sleep  ;  we  both  feel  wretched  in 
consequence.  The  papers  are  full  of  it,  but  I  've  not  had 
a  chance  yet  to  read  them.  Since  I  rose,  at  one  o'clock, 
I  've  been  busy  packing  my  things  at  the  hotel  to  bring 
here,  as  we  both  concluded  to  pass  the  balance  of  the 
week  "at  home."  When  we  get  well  set,  we  will  have  a 
"  lady's  day "  for  you.  My  head  is  now  in  a  whirl,  of 
course.  Old  Mr.  Connor  and  Murdock,  with  other  old 
actors,  were  present.  Judge  Daly  just  interrupted  me; 
sends  his  love,  and  has  ordered  his  lunch.  Several  of  the 
best  men  of  New  York  are  here,  and  it  will,  no  doubt,  be 
the  rendezvous  of  the  choicest.  Some  are  in  the  library, 
reading,  and  it  really  seems  as  if  we  had  been  going  for 
years,  instead  of  one  day.  All  the  exclusive  neighbors 
in  this  most  conservative  quarter  are  pleased  instead  of 
offended  by  the  innovation  of  a  club-house  in  the  midst 
of  their  respective  mansions,  as  they  were  at  first.  All 
believe,  as  I  do,  that  this  will  be  of  more  real  benefit  to 
the  actor  than  anything  ever  done  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
Only  old  distinguished  actors  arc  "on  the  free  list."  .  .  . 
The  list  is  overfull,  and  we  must  go  slowly  now,  lest  we 
exclude  the  actors  we  want.     Our  list  of  membership  is 

1 1  had  sent  a  wreath  of  laurel,  asking  Mr.  Barrett  to  place  it  upon  my  fa- 
ther's brow  on  this  occasion.  I  attached  to  the  wreath  on  a  card  the  words, 
"  Hamlet,  King,  Father." 


g,  KDWIN    BOOTH 

too  small  in  its  limits  at  present.  The  walls  arc  filled 
with  pictures,  mostly  mine/  and  m\'  books  just  filled  one 
section  ..f  the  cases,  which  soon  will  be  entirely  filled: 
every  day  some  gift  comes.  An  anonymous  lady  sent  a 
fine  cra\on  copy  of  a  Shakspere,  and  other  things  come 
from  str.mgers.  The  aftair  has  aroused  the  greatest  sym- 
pathy for  the  cause,  to  my  great  surprise  and  delight. 
This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  now,  and  I  am  too  hurried  and 
nervous  to  review  my  letter,  so  you  must  guess  at  what 
ni)'  mistakes  mean. 

God  bless  you  all,  a  thousand  times! 

I  hope  you  are  well  again  and  very  happy.  I  go  to 
Pittsburg  from  here, — one  of  the  Baltimore  weeks,  as  per 
printed  tour,  then  to  Baltimore,  then  Boston.  God  bless 
vou  !  Papa. 


Cleveland,  April  17,  1889. 

.  .  .  Barrett  and  I  both  had  letters  from  you  yester- 
day. He  hardly  knows  how  to  answer;  all  that  he  can  do 
to  lessen  my  labors  will  be  done,  but  what  can  he  do  ? 
Nothing  without  entailing  great  expense  and  trouble  for 
me.  You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  suppose  from  what 
others  say,  and  print,  that  I  am  a  mere  tool  in  the  hands 
of  others.  I  alone  am  responsible  for  the  engagements  I 
have  contracted,  through  him,  with  other  parties ;  he  has 
no  more  influence  now,  in  changing  the  order  of  those 
engagements,  than  a  dead  man. 

The  cry  has  ever  been  against  my  manager:  "He 
works  you  too  hard,"  etc.  "  Why  don't  you  give  up 
some  of  the  engagements  for  rest  ?  "  etc. — as  if  acting 
were  out  of  the  regular  order  of  business  affairs,  without 
responsibilities.      I  do  not  consider  it  very  complimentary 

1  Portraits  of  celebrated  actors,  and  many  valuable  paintings  owned  and  pre- 
sented by  my  father  to  the  club. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER 


95 


to  have  my  over-anxious  friends  blame  others  for  leading 
me  by  the  nose,  when,  in  fact,  not  a  move  has  been  made 
without  my  full  consideration  and  consent.  This  is  not 
meant  as  a  "scold  "  for  you,  dear,  but  for  the  many  in- 
considerate ones  who  advise  all  sorts  of  absurdities  and 
impossibilities.  Whatever  can  be  done  to  ease  up  this 
season  shall  be  done.  Most  of  the  one-night  stands  will  be 
given  up,  and  the  time  devoted  to  a  visit  to  the  Yosemite, 
and  wherever  it  is  possible  to  cancel  the  "  double  "  bill,  it 
shall  be  done. 

Barrett  will  sail  for  Germany  July  lo.  .  .  .  The  weather 
is  delightful,  out  of  the  windy  quarter.  The  houses  have 
been  crowded  and  very  fashionable.  I  hope  you  continue 
well,  and  that  your  jewels  will  arrive  bright  and  full  of 
joy  to  you.  My  eyes  are  much  better,  but  I  am  bilious ; 
I  am  too  lazy  to  sit  up  properly,  and  am  lounging  on  my 
middle  vertebrae  while  I  scribble  this. 

Adieu. 


Denver,  May  3,  1889. 

.  .  .  Since  I  wrote  you  I  have  had  your  two  letters,  and 
Ignatius's  telegram,  the  latter  telling  me  you  go  to  New 
York  to-day.  .  .  .  I  hope  you  did  go  to  Mount  Vernon.  As 
I  remember  it,  in  my  boy  days,  it  was  a  lovely  place,  but 
much  in  decay  ;  since  then,  however,  it  has  been  redeemed 
and  restored  to  its  original  condition  by  a  society  of  ladies 
who  bought  it.  Mrs.  Ritchie,  wife  of  an  editor  of  influence 
in  Richmond  (formerly  Mrs.  Mowatt,  the  famous  actress), 
was  vice-president  of  that  society.  She  got  up  a  series 
of  benefits  to  raise  funds  for  the  purpose,  and  your 
mother  and  I  played  Kathcrinc  and  PctritcJiio  for  the  first 
matinee  performance.  Matinees  were  very  unusual  in 
those  days.  Edward  I*2verett  delivered  a  grand  oration, 
while  General  Scott  and    his   military   staff  sat    on    the 


96 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


Stage.  Vou  found  the  mummies':  I  remember  them  as 
you  ilcscribc  them.  Varden  was  the  old  fellow's  name 
who  hail  chari;e  of  them.  As  for  the  double  row  of  teeth, 
there  may  have  been  some  error  regarding;  their  peculi- 
arit>-,  but  the  professor  is  wrong  when  he  denies  the  pos- 
sibility o(  such   a  freak,   for  Dr.    J.  A.  B ,  when  he 

was  tjuitc  a  young  man,  had  an  inner  row  of  teeth  taken 
from  his  lower  jaw,  and  had  to  wear  a  sort  of  horseshoe - 
shaped  piece  of  wood  instead  for  more  than  a  year,  to 
preserve  the  shape  of  his  jaw.  This  I  can  vouch  for; 
but  of  the  mummies'  teeth,  I  repeat  only  what  I  heard, 
and  read,  I  think,  in  the  book  called  "The  Actor,"  and 
quoted  by  Asia.  I  believe  you  have  "  The  Actor,"  and 
am  pretty  sure  that  you  will  find  reference  to  the  mum- 
mies there.  To-day  the  sun  shines  for  the  first  time  since 
I  arrived.  It  so  seldom  rains  here  that  the  fine,  wide 
streets  are  not  paved,  the  roads  are  so  firm,  and  this 
unusual  weather  has  made  mush  of  'em. 

Bispham  and  Harry  give  glowing  accounts  of  "  Lady 
Day."  In  my  room  just  now  is  a  pretty  easel,  with  a 
huge  open  book  of  lilies,  carnations,  white  and  red,  with 
ribbons  and  smilax,  and  my  name  across  the  book,  a  gift 
from  the  ladies  of  some  hospital  which  I  sometime  helped, 
I  forget  when.  .  .  .  It  is  very  beautiful.  'T  is  now  nearly 
five  o'clock,  and  I  have  smoked  but  one  wee  pipe  and  one 
mild  cigar  as  yet.  What  think  you  of  that  ?  I  am  now 
reading  Motley's  letters,  prior  to  beginning  his  "Dutch 
Republic";  very  interesting.  I  knew  him  sHghtly,  and  I 
think  your  mother  did  also. 

The  rain  has  injured  business,  which,  however,  is  very 
good ;  my  health  is  good,  also.  The  lack  of  exercise 
renders  me  so  sleepy;  it  is  queer  that  my  naps^  come 

1  My  grandfather.  J.  B.  Booth,  had  presented  these  mummies  to  the  Smith- 
sonian Institution  at  Washington. 

2  When  acting,  my  father  always  took  a  nap  after  dinner,  from  four  to  six 
o'clock,  and  before  the  play. 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  97 

before,  instead  of  after,  dinner,  which  is  rather  awkward. 
When  I  have  a  chance  to  walk  out  in  the  morning,  I  '11 
get  back  into  my  regular  habit,  no  doubt.  .  .  ,  Bless  ye 
babbies.      Love  to  all. 

Papa. 


San  Francisco,  May  21,  1889. 

.  .  .  Yours  of  the  12th  received.  .  .  .  The  weather  here 
has  been  about  the  same  as  yours,  except  that  instead  of 
a  cyclone,  we  had  an  earthquake  —  the  first  genuine 
"simon  pure"  shock  I  ever  felt,  and  the  worst,  't  is  said, 
since  1868,  when  a  very  severe  one  did  great  damage. 
Strange  to  say,  this  one,  so  unusually  violent,  and  of  such 
long  duration,  did  no  damage  whatever.  I  was  awakened 
by  the  rumble  and  the  rocking  of  my  bed.  I  am  on  the 
second  floor;  Barrett,  whose  room  is  two  stories  above 
mine,  had  a  greater  shake,  and  many  others  in  the  house 
were  greatly  scared.  It  occurred  about  three  o'clock 
A.  M.,  after  an  intensely  hot  day,  and  ever  since  it  has 
been  cool.  We  are  still  trying  to  get  out  of  our  fourth 
week  here,  and  may  succeed.  The  trouble  is,  the  manager 
can't  get  any  attraction  to  fill  that  week,  if  we  do  not,  and 
he  will  have  to  close  the  house.  Knowing  we  are  anxious 
to  quit,  he  wants  a  large  sum,  in  view  of  his  inability 
to  supply  our  place.  I  don't  want  to  stop  short  on  the 
ground  of  ill-health,  etc.,  for  that  would  set  all  sorts  of 
gossip  afloat.  I  have  no  doubt  there  will  be  lots  of  that 
because  I  don't  go  to  Oregon.  I  '11  telegraph  when  we 
decide  the  question.  ...  I  acknowledged  the  letter  anent 
your  happy  four  years  past,  and  wished  you  happy  re- 
turns, etc.  We  go  some  distance  into  the  park  "  on  the 
brow  of  the  sea,"  and  walk  awhile  in  the  ozone,  the  carriage 
following.  When  we  have  our  fill,  we  return  to  dinner 
about  3  o'clock.     This  park  has  wonderful  advantages  of 


98  EDWIN    I500TH 

splendid  mountains  and  superb  ocean-views  far  and  near, 
anil  inan\-  miles  of  drives  through  woods  and  along  the 
seashore  ;  it  is  already  finer  than  any  park  I  know,  and 
in  time  will  be,  artificially  and  naturally,  far  beyond  any 
in  the  world.  1  do  not  think  it  was  begun  when  you 
were  here.  .  .  .  Still,  I  would  n't  live  here  if  the  city 
were  preseiiteil  to  me  free  of  taxes.  I  hope. your  cottage 
will  be  in  good  shape  for  you,  and  thoroughly  dry  before 
you  move  in.   .   .   . 

After  all  the  "  blow  "  and  gush  about  the  new  theatre, 
it  is  somewhat  of  a  failure  ;  the  public  do  not  appreciate 
it.  The  prices,  however,  are  too  high,  and  we  are  a  few 
months  later  than  we  should  be  for  the  best  people,  who 
are  out  of  town. 

God  bless  you  !     Love  to  all. 

Kiss  the  kids  for  g'andpop.  Just  after  I  post  this  I  will 
receive  one  from  you,  I  've  no  doubt. 


The  Players,  August  14,  1889. 

...  I  telegraphed  you  of  my  safe  arrival ;  was  too 
empty  (headed)  and  lazy  to  write.  The  trip  was  not 
unpleasant,  but  I  was  jolly  tired,  and  glad  to  get  here. 
Went  directly  to  my  room  and  had  tea  ;  saw  none  but 
Harry  till  next  day.  Dined  with  Bispham  yesterday  at 
Bispham's  rooms  ;  that  's  all,  to  date.  A  letter  from 
Winter  asks  for  the  sketch  (E.  B.)  I  left  with  you,  so 
when  you  finish  it,  send  it  here  to  me,  and  I  will  ship  it 
off  to  Stratford,  where  he  is  fixed  for  several  months. 
Hutton  writes  interesting  accounts  of  his  doings,  and 
sends  both  his  and  his  wife's  good  words  for  you,  etc. 
He  says  Winter  seems  ten  years  younger  and  very 
happy.  No  word  from  Barrett.  Winter  says  he  has  had 
several  letters  from  him,  all  jolly.  Not  very  hot  here,  but 
warm  enough  and  damp  part  of  the  day.   .   .   .   Tell  those 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  99 

naughty  children  that  I  don't  rise  till  nearly  dinner-time 
here,  because  they  don't  call  me  in  the  morning  at  "  ten 
min'ts  o'cok."  Well,  how  is  the  German?  I  hope  you 
had  a  "high-Dutch  "  time.  Don't  forget  my  card  to  the 
D — s'  invitation  for  us  all  to  the  Continental  last  night. 
Did  you  know  of  it  ?  No  news.  Have  not  yet  begun  to 
sort  the  odds  and  ends,  10,000  deep,  in  the  way  of  play- 
bills, prints,  etc.,  that  I  want  to  straighten  out  before  the 
summer  is  gone.  .  .  .  God  bless  you  all !  Tell  babies  to 
keep  their  heads  out  of  the  soup. 

Your  loving  papa. 


The  Players,  September  20,  1889. 

...  It  seems  a  month  since  I  heard  from  you.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  had  your  hands  full,  and  that  your  letter 
will  catch  me  to-morrow  before  I  start.  .  .  . 

The  rehearsal  was  tedious,  and  altogether  the  day  has 
been  a  wearisome  one,  and  to-night  Daly  gives  a  late 
supper,  at  which  I  must  be  present ;  but  I  've  had  a 
good  nap,  and  feel  well.  .  .  .  You  must  go  often  to  the 
Park,  and  drive  along  the  Riverside  to  Grant's  Tomb, 
etc.  It  is  superb.  Rehearsals  go  well.  ...  I  will  write 
soon  on  my  arrival  in  Louisville,  Sunday.  Have  nothing 
to  record  beyond  what  I  have  scribbled  here.  .  .  .  The 
club  goes  well,  and  is  a  delightful  hotel.  Had  a  pleasant 
special  meeting  yesterday,  to  settle  some  odds  and  ends  ; 
all  went  smoothly.     Bye-bye. 

Your  loving  papa. 

Louisville,  Sept.  23,  1889. 

...  I  arrived  here  in  the  sunny  South,  to  find  a  glow- 
ing and  welcome  fire  on  the  hearth,  about  half-past 
twelve  this  A.  M.,  well  and  happy  that  the  journey  was 


lOO  EDWIN   BOOTH 

ended,  but,  oh,  so  jolly  tired!  Until  about  lO  o'clock 
Saturday  ni,i;ht  the  road  was  like  a  table-top;  then  it 
bci;an  to  curve,  and  kept  so  all  the  blessed  night ;  next 
day  ai;ain  it  leveled  up  awhile ;  then  about  5  P.  M., 
and  till  we  reached  Louisville,  it  squirmed  and  jolted 
dreadfully.  I  am  feeling  well,  but  rather  tired  ;  shall  loll 
all  day.   .   .   . 

Barrett  and  his  company  think  "  Ganelon "  a  great 
play,  and  that  it  will  be  a  success.  I  hope  so.  He  and 
I  have  both  agreed  to  act  very  little  next  season,  I  to 
begin  about  January,  and  play  six  weeks  in  New  York, 
and  four  in  Boston  —  no  more,  unless  I  should,  later,  go 
to  Philadelphia  for  two  weeks.  This  will  be  sufficient  to 
occupy  me ;  if  it  works  well  I  shall  continue  such  limited 
engagements.  I  have  serious  doubts  of  Barrett's  contin- 
uance ;  his  face  looks  worse  than  ever,  and  he  is  fear- 
fully sensitive.  Otherwise  he  is  in  better  health.  Will 
write  again  in  a  day  or  two.  Love  for  all.  Tell  the  babies 
I  am  still  hunting,  and  can't  find  'em.     God  bless  you  ! 

Papa. 


Pittsburg,  Oct.  i  (or  nearly  so),  1889. 

.  .  .  The  week  closed  finely  at  Louisville,  and  I  opened 
well  here  to-night.  Arrived  here  last  evening  pretty 
tired,  but  slept  well  all  night  and  nearly  all  to-day.  C — 
says  the  people  were  delighted  with  the  play,  but  to  me 
it  seemed  very  slow  and  dull.  .  ,  .  Rain  to-day  gave  me 
aches,  but  otherwise  I  am  very  well,  much  better  than  in 
Louisville.  It  seems  strange  to  be  without  Barrett;  he  is 
rehearsing  in  Chicago  all  this  week,  and  begins  Monday 
with  his  new  play  of  "  Ganelon,"  on  which  he  has  spent 
much  money.  As  I  have  rehearsals  every  day  this  week 
(those  in  New  York  did  no  good)  I  must  write  my  letters 
after  the  play ;  but  next  week  I  shall  be  free.  .  .  . 


letters  to  his  daughter  loi 

New  York,  Nov.  15,  1889. 

I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  again  so  soon.  ...  I 
have  a  rehearsal,  and  after  it  a  committee  meeting;  my 
only  chance  to  see  you  will  be  at  the  theatre  between  acts; 
and  in  my  room  there  I  have  an  artist  at  me.  I  enclose 
tickets  for  the  box,  if  you  should  decide  to  come  this 
evening,  but  I  suspect  you  will  be  very  tired.  My  birth- 
day was  a  "  Fourth  of  July  "  from  early  A.  M.,  when  your 
sweet  gift  greeted  me,  till  2  A.  M.,  when  "The  Players" 
"  suppered  "  me  gorgeously.  At  the  theatre  the  actors 
"gold-badged"  me  —  two  surprises. 

Papa. 

New  York,  Nov.  17,  1889. 

...  It  is  not  possible  for  me  to  remember  anything. 
I  thought  you  were  to  dine  out  to-day.  I  have  slept 
nearly  all  the  time,  feeling  utterly  upset,  with  severe 
headache  and  other  disagreeables.  Am  better  now,  but 
will  stay  indoors,  and  be  with  you  to-morrow  at  dinner, 
unless  you  are  to  go  out.  Let  me  know  during  the 
morning.  I  shall  now  try  to  eat,  and  wish  I  had  some 
of  your  beef  and  cabbage.    God  bless  you  !    Love  for  all. 

Poor  Florence  !  ^  I  fear  his  cue  has  come. 


The  Players,  New  York,  Wednesday, 

Dec.  4,  1889. 

.  .  .  Reports  from  Barrett  are  sad.  He  's  canceling 
engagements,  and  will  go  on  to  Boston  from  Washington, 
Sunday,  to  rest  four  weeks,  and  consult  his  doctor.  I  do 
not  think  he  will  ever  act  again,  even  if  he  lives.  This 
is  entrc  nous.      He  is  not  hopeful   now  ;  has  pain   in  the 

'  William  Florence. 
7* 


lOJ  KDWIN    nOOTH 

throat.  .111(1  hysterical  fccliny;  all  the  while,  and  his  speech 
is  artccttil. 

.  Voii  want  a  motto  for  the  ladle  (I  '11  look  for  one); 
K.ili-  I'irKl  wants  one  for  her  new  paper,  Lederer  wants 
one  for  a  ladies'  fair,  and  the  club  wants  one  for  its 
book-plate.       .   . 

On  Monila\-,  2t,(.\,  I  must  be  here  to  attend  an  official 
tlinner  in  i>ur  new  tlining-room,  and  the  next  day,  the 
24th,  I  l;o  to  Boston,  to  be  with  you  Xmas  until  the 
30th.  This  will  allow  me  four  days  with  you  at  first.  I 
must  attend  our  anniversary,  the  31st,  and  then,  before  I 
go  to  Providence,  I  will  be  two  or  three  days  again  with 
you. 

.  .  .  My  general  health  continues  to  improve,  and  I 
feel  better  than  for  years,  except  an  occasional  let  down 
when  the  weather  is  bad.  'T  is  now  delightfully  cold,  with 
snow  on  the  ground,  and  the  bright  sun  shining.  I  'm 
glad  Ignatius  is  well.  .  .  .  We  have  just  received  a  quan- 
tity of  books  for  the  library,  and  it  is  nearly  full,  while 
our  income  of  pictures  puzzles  us  where  to  hang  them. 
.  .  .  Now  I  leave  you  for  my  dinner.  My  days  are  very 
brief,  after  a  late  breakfast  and  an  early  dinner  before  my 
4:30  nap.     Adieu.  Papa. 

The  Players,  New  York,  Dec.  8,  1889. 

.  .  .  Yesterday  I  sent  you  flowers  as  my  birthday 
greeting.  .  .  .  They  bear  my  love,  and  blessing,  all  the 
same.  I  hope  you  will  have  a  merry  day,  and  very  many 
returns  of  it  —  full  of  health  and  happiness.  Barrett  ar- 
rived early  this  morning.  He  looks  remarkably  well  in 
every  respect,  except,  of  course,  the  swellings  ;  they  are 
worse  than  ever,  and  the  symptoms  he  describes  are  those 
which  I  am  told  arc  very  serious.  He  will  now  submit  to 
whatever  his  phy.sician  advises.     To-night  at  ten  I  start 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  IO3 

for  Auburn,  a  place  I  've  never  visited.  In  the  olden 
times  it  was  one  of  the  principal  theatre-city  points  ;  I  'm 
told  they  've  a  very  fine  theatre  there.  The  best  quota- 
tion I  can  suggest  for  your  ladle  is  from  "Hamlet" — 
"We  '11  teach  you  to  drink  deep,  ere  you  depart." 

December  31  is  "  Founders'  Night,"  the  anniversary  of 
our  opening  here,  and  the  appropriate  occasion  for  your 
gift.     I  '11  write  again  in  a  day  or  two. 


The  Players,  New  York,  January  2,  1890. 

.  .  .  Just  as  I  had  packed  my  bag,  and  was  about  start- 
ing for  the  station  at  two,  Sargent  the  artist  called,  to  say 
that  he  had  word  from  the  art  committee  to  paint  my 
portrait  for  the  club.  You  know,  I  told  you  if  it  was  de- 
cided he  should  paint  it,  I  would  stay  for  as  many  sittings 
as  I  could  give  him  from  now  till  Saturday.  I  wired  you 
at  once.  I  will  start  by  the  3  o'clock  train  Saturday.  Of 
course  this  is  the  only  opportunity  to  have  so  distin- 
guished an  artist  at  me ;  consequently  I  yield  to  the 
annoyance  of  posing. 

I  hope  you  are  all  well,  and  that  the  grip  has  let  go. 

Papa. 


Philadelphl\,  Feb.  12,  1890. 

...  I  found  a  letter  from  you  here.  I  did  not  leave 
New  York  till  one  o'clock  Monday,  having  a  club  meet- 
ing that  morning.  The  business  here,  thus  far,  is  great. 
.  .  .  The  Vincent  Hospital  should  be  encouraged.  I  '11 
do  something  for  it  soon.  At  present  I  have  my  hands 
full.  ...  I  wrote  you  before  I  left  New  York,  and  sent 
you  a  present  in  a  letter.  In  it  I  also  told  you  of  the 
successful  result  of  Sargent's  work,  but  I  did  not  tell  you 
that  at  intervals,  while  I  rested,  he  would  sit  at  the  piano 


104 


i:U\VlN    BOOTH 


ami  phiy  "  Racoksy  "'  (is  that  the  name  and  the  spell  of 
it  ?)  .mil  Dllur  Hungarian  airs.  Zimmerman,  the  manager 
here,  i^avc  luc  a  magnificent  crayon  head  of  Boker,  one 
of  God's  handsomest  men,  finely  framed.  Boker  was  a 
god  in  appearance,  even  in  old  age,  and  was  a  noble 
follow,  too,  and  a  great  poet.  Good  weather  thus  far.  I 
will  be  at  the  station  Friday. 

Papa. 


Phila.,  Feb.  23,  1890. 

.  .  .  Yours  of  the  20th  is  before  me,  on  the  top  of  about 
twenty  other  letters,  to  de  answered,  and  echo  answers — ? 
However,  I  '11  tackle  yours,  and  do  the  best  I  may  for 
you;  but  I  fear  my  "chat"  will  be  a  dull,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable one,  for  my  head  aches,  and  I  am  tired  and  out 
of  sorts  to-day,  with  not  a  word  of  news  of  any  sort.  The 
day  is  blue  and  chilly  —  me  too.  ...  I  came  very  near 
having  the  same  accident  in  the  same  play  last  week;  I 
stepped  down  two  steps  in  the  dark  scene  of  "  Macbeth," 
and  for  a  few  seconds  I  feared  I  had  slipped  something 
out  of  place,  but  fortunately  escaped  injury.  A  long 
chatty  letter  from  Barrett  just  arrived  from  Pau,  and  an- 
ticipates quick  recovery.  A  Mrs.  P — wants  to  go  into 
partnership  with  me,  to  build  a  theatre  and  wax  museum 
on  some  land  she  owns.  Think  of  me  as  a  "  Monsieur 
Too  —  so"  !  She  thinks  me  just  suited  for  that  business 
—  "A  man  of  wax!"  as  Juliet's  old  nurse  says  o{  Paris. 

I  mail  you  a  copy  of  the  Hamlet  march,  composed  and 
dedicated  to  me  by  Hassler,  of  the  theatre.  I  could  not 
hear  it,  as  the  music  every  night  was  played  under  the 
stage,  because  of  the  crowded  orchestra.  In  spite  of  Lent, 
this  week  has  held  up  equal  to  last,  and  the  prospect  at 
Baltimore  is  quite  as  good. 

I  "  Rdkdczy  "  —  a  Hungarian  march. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  IO5 

Give  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Fields,  Miss  Jewett,  and 
the  Flaglers,  etc.  My  love  to  all  the  rest  of  you,  except 
the  babies. 

Papa. 

P.  S. —  I  go  to  Baltimore  to-morrow,  Monday  noon. 


Mount  Vernon  Hotel,  Baltimore, 

Feb.  26,  1890. 

.  .  .  I  've  just  wired  for  news  of  the  babies.  I  feel  very 
anxious  about  them,  but  of  course  they  must  have  their 
share  of  the  ills  that  attend  childhood.  I  hope  they  are 
well,  and  that  you  are  relieved  of  your  fears.  Business 
here  is  wretched ;  the  worst  engagement  I  ever  played 
in  my  native  city.  Whether  it  is  because  of  Lent,  I  know 
not ;  the  prospect  looked  fine,  but  the  boxes  don't.  Until 
this  morning  the  weather  was  beastly;  that  also  may 
affect  trade.  The  reason  Skinner  did  Petruchio  is  I  could 
not  wait  after  the  "  Fool,"  and  't  was  the  only  play  we 
could  substitute  for  "  Donna  Diana."  Madame  Modjeska 
sent  word  she  would  be  here  to-day,  and  ready  to  act 
next  week.  I  subscribed  to  the  Vincent  Hospital,  and 
have  received  a  nice  note  from  Miss  Derby  and  one  from 
Phillips  Brooks.  .  .  .  This  is  a  very  little  letter,  but  all  I 
can  afford  to-day. 

Papa. 


Baltimore,  March  2,  1890. 

.  .  .  Your  last  letter  and  telegram,  with  good  news  of 
the  children,  gave  me  great  relief:  dear  hearts,  I  hope 
they  are  well  now,  and  that  your  anxiety  is  at  an  end.  .  .  . 


I06  HDWIN    BOOTH 

I  have  been  quite  busy  all  day  receiving  callers,  so  that 
nJL^ht  has  settled  down  without  a  letter  yet  written.  The 
cold  came  yesterday,  and  with  it  a  clear  day,  and  a  good 
house  last  night  —  the  second  decent  one  the  entire  week. 
.  Many  folk,  chiefly  women  and  girls,  come  on  from 
Washington  to  see  the  play,  and  stop  over  night;  Friday 
night  this  house  was  full  of  'em,  and  when  I  came  here 
after  the  play  about  thirty  of  them  were  in  the  hall  in 
double  lines,  through  which  I  had  to  pass.  Not  a  word 
was  uttered  as  I  stalked  to  the  elevator,  but  I  heard 
giggles  and  "  bumps  "  overhead  later  on.  Demands  for 
my  autograph,  of  course,  were  numerous  next  day.  I  have 
not  yet  been  to  the  cemetery,  where  I  will  go  to-morrow 
to  see  the  new  gravestones  that  have  been  erected.  Dr. 
Johnston  called,  and  left  kind  messages  for  you  from  his 
daughter,  and  Gil  Meredith  sends  some  from  his  wife 
and  sister,  whom  I  have  not  seen.  I  hoped  I  'd  have 
matter  enough  in  me  to  write  a  letter,  but  you  see  how 
utterly  dull  and  empty  I  am.  My  health  and  strength 
keep  up  to  par,  and  the  critics  have  been  enthusiastic.  A 
second  letter  from  Barrett.  He  is  very  weak,  he  says, 
but  otherwise  does  not  complain.  The  wind  is  now  howl- 
ing like  a  blizzard,  after  a  week  of  hot  and  foggy  weather. 
Barrett  is  enthusiastic  about  Pau,  its  climate,  its  beauty, 
food,  etc.  Just  the  place,  he  says,  to  pass  the  winters. 
You  might  try  it  for  a  change.  Kind  regards  to  the 
doctors,  etc.     I  shall  order  a  rarebit,  and  go  to  bed. 

Papa. 


Chicago,  March  19,  1890. 

.  .  .  Your  "Phlorida  Phonograph  Phiend"  is  a"phraud." 
He  has  not  my  voice.  I  was  asked  (in  Phila.,  I  think)  to 
speak  into  a   machine   into    which    Stuart    Robson    had 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  IO7 

Spoken,  but  I  did  not :  't  is  his  voice  they  are  playing  off 
at  $12,500,  on  which  he  and  I  both  should  have  a  com- 
mission. ...  I  tried  to  talk  a  message  to  you,  and  sent 
two  cylinders  by  express.  In  the  same  box  I  put  a  gift 
for  Mildred's  "  fourth  "  [birthday]  —  a  ring  and  a  brooch. 
.  .  .  Thanks,  dear,  for  the  glass-wiper  ;  very  useful,  only 
I  find  myself  using  it  oftener  for  my  pen  than  for  my 
specs.  .  .  .  Just  here  the  phonograph  expert  came  with 
his  machine,  and  after  listening  to  several  musical  exam- 
ples (very  fine),  I  recited  Othello  s  and  Hamlet's  speeches 
for  you.  I  will  send  them  in  a  day  or  so.  They  are  both 
excellent,  much  more  distinct  than  those  you  have;  but 
of  course  it  is  impossible  (for  me,  at  least)  to  recite  with 
full  feeling  and  warmth  of  expression  in  cold  blood,  as  it 
were ;  still,  the  effect  is  nearly  perfect.  I  have  an  invi- 
tation to  dine  with  the  Dunlaps  Sunday,  but  can't  accept. 
They  have  just  returned  from  a  trip  to  Florida;  they  are  of 
the  Warren  and  Jefferson  family,  through  the  Rices  and 
Marbles.  A  letter  from  Barrett  to-day  gives  a  dismal 
account  of  Pau  at  present  —  snow  and  slush.  He  goes  to 
Paris  en  route  for  a  sail  on  the  Mediterranean  till  the 
German  baths  are  open  in  April.  His  cheerfulness  seems 
forced,  poor  fellow.  .  .  .  Remember  me  kindly  to  all  who 
know  me  outside  our  circle  ;  love  for  the  rest.  Kisses  for 
babies  and  their  mama. 

Pop. 


Cincinnati,  April  lo,  1890. 

...  I  received  your  "  wire-gram"  last  night  and  your 
"  phonogram  "  just  now.  I  wired  you  "  three  cheers  "  for 
the  boy '  yester-morn.  I  '11  try  to  unwind  the  cylinder 
to-morrow;  't  is  too  cold  and  snowy  for  me  to  venture 
out  to-day.      Day  before  yesterday  I  [)ut  on  my  summer 

1  My  little  son's  birthday. 


loS  EDWIN   BOOTH 

clotliin^.  ami  foiiiul  it  too  hot  even  in  the  shade;  yester- 
day it  cooled,  and  to-day  't  is  snowing,  and  a  fire  is  in 
m\'  room,  and  my  thickest  clothes  are  on  again.  You 
must  be  on  guard  for  sudden  changes;  the  old  world  is 
on  a  rampage,  and  there  is  no  telling  where  she  '11  land 
in  her  tantrums,  the  kittenish  old  thing!  Mars  or  "Jew- 
Peter"  has  been  winking  at  her,  maybe.  I  hope  my  two 
letters  and  the  jumping  dog  for  Clarence  will  be  for- 
warded from  the  Stratford.  Bob  Miles,  the  manager 
here,  formerly  a  circus  and  menagerie  man,  told  of  a 
monkey  he  once  had  in  his  show  that  stole  a  basket  of 
birds,  and  ran  to  the  roof  of  a  house,  where  he  amused 
himself  by  letting  the  birds  escape  one  at  a  time,  then 
got  into  the  empty  basket,  and  rolled  in  it  from  the 
roof  to  the  ground.  A  Shaksperian  coincidence:  Ham- 
let, in  his  advice  to  his  mother  regarding  her  connec- 
tion with  his  uncle  (not  spoken  on  the  stage)  refers  to 
some  obscure  episode  of  the  kind.  No  scholar  or  anti- 
quarian has  discovered  what  he  refers  to.  He  speaks  of 
an  ape  that  unpegged  the  basket  on  the  house-top,  and 
let  the  birds  fly,  then  got  into  the  basket,  and  broke  his 
neck  by  falling.  Some  wise  critics  —  v/ho  "find  in  Shak- 
spere  more  than  Shakspere  knew  " — declare  that  he  fore- 
told the  telegraph  when  he  made  Puck  put  a  girdle  about 
the  earth  in  forty  minutes.  I  wonder  if  he  foresaw  Bob 
M.'s  monkey  trick.  There  was  doubtless  something  of 
the  kind  that  amused  the  people  of  London  in  his  time. 
"  History  repeats  itself." 

I  will  wait  now  till  Frank  comes ;  he  may  bring  me  a 
letter  from  you. — No  letter,  so  I  '11  close,  as  I  have  noth- 
ing further  to  tell  you  except  that  the  sun  is  now  shining 
and  the  snow  has  ceased  :  but  don't  worry ;  it  will  fall 
again  by  the  time  I  close  this  epistle.  Bye-bye  !  Busi- 
ness and  health  good. 

Papa. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  IO9 

Detroit,  April  14,  1890. 

After  the  play  Saturday  I  took  the  train,  and  had  a 
sleepless  night,  altho'  the  road  was  good.  Arrived  at  9 
A.  M.  so  tired  that  I  slept  ofif  and  on  nearly  all  day.  At 
eight  o'clock  last  night,  as  I  was  about  to  write  you,  a  fire 
broke  out  in  the  Plankinton  Hotel,  just  across  a  narrow 
street  from  this  one  and  quite  near  the  theatre  also.  The 
immense  crowd  of  people,  and  the  noise  and  the  sparks  of 
many  engines  all  about  the  house  till  eleven  o'clock,  upset 
my  effort  to  write.  I  got  ready  what  valuables  I  have 
with  me,  expecting  this  house  to  take  fire,  but  by  mid- 
night all  was  quiet.  The  day  and  the  night,  too,  were  very 
hot,  but  toward  morning  a  thunder-storm  and  heavy  rain 
made  me  close  all  the  windows,  and  this  morning  I  have  a 
blazing  fire,  and  my  heavy  wrap  about  me.  Why  not  visit 
the  club  at  "  Ladye-Day,"  if  you  care  to  see  the  crowd  ? 
Bispham  is  one  of  the  reception  committee.  Suit  your 
own  convenience  and  pleasure  about  it.  The  messages 
you  sent  were  tolerably  distinct.  I  could  recognize  both 
voices,  altho'  they  seemed  pitched  too  high,  and,  after 
repeating  the  operation  several  times,  I  made  out  nearly 
all  the  words. 

Yes ;  it  is  indeed  most  gratifying  to  feel  that  age  has 
not  rendered  my  work  stale  and  tiresome,  as  is  usually  the 
case  with  actors  (especially  tragedians)  at  my  time.  Your 
dear  mother's  fear  was  that  I  would  culminate  too  early, 
as  I  seemed  then  to  be  advancing  so  rapidly.  Somehow 
I  can't  rid  myself  of  the  belief  that  both  she  and  my  father 
helped  me.  But  as  for  the  compensation  ?  Nothing  of 
fame  or  fortune  can  compensate  for  the  spiritual  suffering 
that  one  possessing  such  qualities  has  to  endure.  To 
pass  Hfe  in  a  sort  of  dream,  where  "  Nothing  is  l:)ut  what  is 
not,"  a  loneliness  in  the  very  midst  of  a  constant  crowd, 
as  it  were,  is  not  a  desirable  condition  of  existence,  es- 


I  lo  EDWIN    BOOTH 

pcciall)-  when  ihc  body  also  has  to  share  the  "penalty 
of xn-iif/ifss,"  as  it  is  termed.  Bosh!  I  'd  rather  be  an 
obscure  fanner,  a  hayseed  from  Wayback,  or  a  cabinet- 
maker,' as  ni}-  father  advised,  than  the  most  distinguished 
man  on  earth.  But  Nature  cast  me  for  the  part  she  found 
me  best  fitted  for,  and  I  have  had  to  play  it,  and  must 
play  it,  till  the  curtain  falls.  But  you  must  not  think  me 
sad  about  it.     No ;   I  am  used  to  it,  and  am  contented. 

I  continue  well,  and  act  with  a  vigor  which  sometimes 
surprises  myself,  and  all  the  company  notice  it,  and  com- 
ment upon  it.  I  'm  glad  the  babes  had  a  jolly  birthday. 
Bless  'em  !     Love  for  all. 

Papa. 


Decatur,  April  27,  1890. 

...  It  is  too  oppressively  hot  for  the  least  exertion. 
The  conveniences  for  writing  on  this  car  are  very  meager, 
and  the  materials  are  none  of  the  best,  so  I  use  a  pencil 
as  an  easier  means  of  getting  through  a  reply  to  your  last 
two  letters.  We  are  anchored  here  for  the  day  and  night. 
A  heavy,  cold  rain  here  all  day  yesterday  has  made  the 
walking  knee-deep,  but  overhead  it  is  superb,  but  very 
warm.  .  .  .  Had  I  given  proper  attention  to  my  dollar 
and  cent  dealings  with  men,  I  would  now  be  at  least  a 
millionaire,  perhaps  doubly  so ;  but  I  never  considered 
that  side  of  the  question,  taking  from  managers  just  what 
they  offered,  and  gratifying  my  desires  to  help  impecuni- 
ous and,  very  often,  very  ungrateful  friends. 

Now  for  the  portrait.  The  pose  was  chosen  as  being  so 
very  characteristic  when  off  the  stage,  and  standing  in  con- 
versation, and  as  being  so  unconventional.  The  one  sug- 
gested by was  thought  to  be  too  commonplace,  as  every 

1  My  father  had  often  related  that  his  father  was  opposed  to  his  being  an  actor, 
and  desired  him  to  learn  some  trade,  like  cabinet-making. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   DAUGHTER  I  1 1 

statesman,  soldier,  etc.,  is  posed  just  so,  one  hand  resting 
on  chair  or  table,  and  holding  a  scroll  in  the  other:  Wash- 
ington resigning  his  commission,  Shakspere,  and  a  dozen 
other  little  fellows,  in  marble,  bronze,  or  paint.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  myself  standing  in  the  very  attitude  when 
I  asked  Sargent  if  it  was  usual  with  me,  and  I  find  my 
hands  in  the  same  position  even  on  the  stage — in  Hamlet, 
very  frequently.  By  actual  measurements  the  dimensions 
are  correct;  but  the  picture,  being  placed  so  high  upon 
the  wall,  I  suppose,  appears  as  you  describe  it.  Bispham 
and  all  who  saw  it  in  the  studio  liked  it,  but  I  could  not 
decide  positively  how  it  impressed  me.  .  .  .  I  'm  glad  the 
babies  are  so  well,  and  make  you  so  happy.  Tell  them 
"  Ba-Ba-Boo  "  will  soon  come  to  see  them.  God  bless 
you  !  Love  to  all.  .  .  .  Bromley  has  a  letter  from  Bar- 
rett, at  Stuttgart;  is  cheerful,  but  says  nothing  of  his 
health.      He  must  now  be  at  the  baths.      Bye-bye. 

Papa. 

The  Players,  Sept.  19,  1890. 

.  .  .  I  'm  quite  well,  a  little  weak-kneed  and  light- 
headed still,  but  very  much  better.  A  reporter  called 
yesterday  to  ask  me  about  another  report  that  I  had 
sciatica.  The  papers  are  all  in  a  famine  for  news,  and 
that  is  why  this  stuff  is  continued.  Of  course  when  I  am 
seen  walking  so  slowly  and  with  a  cane,  as  I  do,  gossipcrs 
on  the  street  at  once  conclude  that  I  am,  or  have  been, 
afflicted  in  some  way.  Barrett  will  be  here  for  a  few  days 
next  week,  and  we  have  a  box  to  see  Crane,  with  General 
Sherman  and  several  others ;  then  perhaps  it  will  be 
known  that  the  reports  are  false;  and  when  Bispham 
gets  back  from  Annapolis  we  intend  to  make  a  round  of 
the  theatres  during  my  vacation.  Yesterday  the  rain 
ceased,  and  the  weather  since  has  been  delicious ;   I  hope 


1  1  2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

you  havo  as  pleasant  a  change.  You  will  be  here  soon, 
aiul  in  your  apartments.  Have  a  barrel  of  letters  on  my 
desk  awaitini,^  answers,  which  I  defer  from  day  to  day. 
I  'm  i;lad  you  have  found  so  good  a  place  inland,  and  it 
would  be  wise  to  try  it  every  year ;  no  doubt  it  would  be 
good  for  me  a  few  weeks.  .  .  .   Love  for  all. 

Papa. 


The  Players,  Sept.  25,  1890. 

...  I  hope  your  athletic  exercises  have  not  been 
overdone.  There  is  great  danger  in  doing  too  much 
at  first  ;  one  should  always  begin  very  gently,  never 
fatiguing  oneself,  but  increase  by  degrees,  daily  and 
very  gradually.  I  've  also  been  rowing  on  dry  land.  I 
have  in  my  bath-room  a  rowing-machine  and  a  pulley, 
for  exercise  every  morning,  which  I  use  very  gently, 
and  feel  its  good  effects  already.  .  .  .  Every  day  I  walk 
with  Barrett,  who  came  Monday,  and  starts  for  Milwaukee 
to-morrow.  He  and  I  went  to  see  Wilson  and  also  Crane, 
and  with  Bispham  I  go  to  see  Mansfield  to-night,  and 
somewhere  else  to-morrow.  I  am  become  quite  a  dis- 
sipated showman  in  a  double  sense.  These  two  days  my 
condition  has  been  greatly  improved  in  every  respect. 
Your  descriptions  are  delightful,  especially  of  the  old  folks 
you  met  on  the  farm.  I  should  much  like  to  meet  'em. 
If  they  had  known  your  father's  trade,  I  fear  you  would 
not  have  been  so  welcome.  Those  old-time  innocents 
don't  believe  in  play-actors.  Booth-man  is  a  new  name 
to  me.  Boothby  is  common  enough  in  England,  and 
frequent  in  New  England  also.  .  .  .  Yes,  my  season  is 
pretty  brief;  and  I  have  agreed  to  shorten  it  still  more 
by  giving  up  my  two  weeks  in  Boston.  There  is  a  great 
success  at  the  Boston  theatre,  and  my  engagement  comes 


KDWIN    nOOTM    IN    i8«<. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  II3 

in  to  cut  it  short ;  and  it  is  a  pity  to  interrupt  a  run  that 
pays  so  well.  T —  is  a  good  fellow,  and  old-time  friend- 
ship induces  me  to  let  him  have  the  time.  Barrett  will 
go  elsewhere  with  the  company  while  I  "loaf.  "  By  this, 
however,  I  shall  sacrifice  about  $8000;  maybe  more. 

Papa. 


Boston,  Mass.,  December  3,  1890. 

...  It  would  seem  that  what  is  called  "legitimate 
drama"  is  about  "played  out"  in  classical  Boston.  Jeffer- 
son and  Florence  have  just  closed  their  engagement,  and 
I  begin  at  the  same  theatre,  with  two  wretched  houses ; 
all  the  other  theatres,  I  believe,  where  cheap  prices  and 
poor  plays  are  indifferently  done,  are  well  filled.  In 
Philadelphia  four  leading  theatres  were  giving  Shakspere 
at  once  to  full  houses  for  two  weeks  while  I  was  there. 
Boston  is  in  the  lower  class  this  season,  sure.  It  is  bitter 
cold ;  to-day  we  have  snow,  and  the  temperature  is 
moderating.  My  views  look  out  on  the  Public  Gardens, 
and  I  see  the  "  lake  "  filled  with  girls  and  boys  skating. 
I  cannot  visit  when  acting.  This  hotel  is  good  for  food 
and  attendance,  and  the  front  rooms,  as  mine  are,  must 
be  excellent  in  mild  weather,  but 't  is  very  difficult  to  heat 
them.   .   .   .  No  news.      Love  to  all. 

Papa. 


Boston,  December  8,  1890. 

.  .  .  Any  little  change  in  my  jog-trot,  routine  habits, 
no  matter  how  trifling  or  agreeable,  puts  me  out,  and 
disables  me,  as  it  were.  I  'vc  had  business  anent  the 
club  .  .  .  and  I  can  only  give  you  a  few  hurried  lines 
of  good   wishes  and   blessings  —  my  dear  old  daughter. 


1  14 


EDWIN    BOOTH 


WIku  I  how  many  are  it  ?    Why,  I  remember  when  you 

were  iiiiiic  a  niiili^ct,  httler  'n  Mildred.   ...   'T  is  bitter 

cold  to-da)-.  but  fortunately  there  is  no  wind,  and  I  am 

very  comfortable,  after  a  good  long  walk.   ...   I  hope  the 

bust  will  come  to-morrow,  but  fear  it  will  not  for  a  few 

ilays    after    your    birthday  ;     at    all    events    I    hope    my 

"  flowery  "  greeting  will  be  on  time  to-morrow  morning. 

God  bless  you,  darling  !    With  many  kisses  for  you  and 

your  birdies^ 

Your  loving  papa. 


Boston,  December  ii,  1890. 

...  I  have  just  got  through  supper  (a  cold  woodcock 
stuffed  with  chestnuts),  after  "  Macbeth,"  a  little  tired,  of 
course,  but  feeling  so  uncommonly  well  that  I  shall  not 
wait  till  to-morrow,  lest  I  may  not  feel  so  then. 

Several  times  this  season  I  have  acted  with  vigor,  but 
not  with  my  usual  clear  mental  grasp  of  the  character, 
and  always  with  an  uncertainty  of  gait  and  a  thinness 
of  voice  —  at  least  to  my  own  ear.  But  all  day  to-day 
I  have  been  entirely  free  from  light-headness,  and  to-night 
I  acted  and  felt  throughout  the  play  just  as  ever  I  did  at 
my  best.  Not  a  stagger,  not  a  sign  of  feebleness  in  either 
my  gait  or  speech  —  to  the  surprise  of  Barrett,  who  at- 
tributes it  to  hard  work,  and  to  all  the  company,  and  to 
my  own  amazement ;  for  it  has  come  so  suddenly  and 
without  cause.  ...  I  got  your  birthday  letter,  and  it 
makes  me  happy  to  know  that  all  have  been  so  well,  and 
that  you  had  such  a  happy  day.  I  'm  afraid,  from  what 
Mr.  Lawrence  tells  me,  that  the  bust  will  not  come  till 
Christmas,  or  much  before.   .   .  . 

The  business  has  greatly  increased,  but  still  there  's 
room.  Dr.  Parsons  has  called  several  times ;  sent  his 
love  for  you  and  babies,  and  he  also  left  some  verses  for 


LETTERS    TO    HIS   DAUGHTER  II5 

you.  Good  night.  God  bless  you  and  the  babies  !  Love 
for  all.  This  may  be  my  last  till  I  get  to  Providence  next 
week. 


The  Players,  January,  1891. 

...  I  received  your  welcome  message  this  morning, 
and  am  delighted  that  you  are  safe  at  your  journey's  end, 
and  find  everything  so  pleasant.  I  hope  the  babies  do 
not  suffer  after  so  long  a  ride,  and  that  you  all  will  be 
very  happy  and  well  in  the  flowery  land.  All  day  I  have 
been  so  busy  that  I  failed  to  telegraph  you,  and  have 
been  prevented  from  writing  till  now  —  midnight.  I  return 
to  Phila.  at  one  o'clock  to-morrow.  .  .  .  The  club  seems 
to  be  growing  more  popular  every  day,  and  with  the  best 
people  ;  it  is  certainly  most  interesting  to  me.  It  is  very 
quiet,  and,  while  in  my  apartments,  the  club  part  of  the 
establishment  might  be  a  mile  distant,  so  far  as  my  re- 
tirement and  privacy  are  concerned.  I  must  be  here 
next  Sunday  again,  in  order  to  attend  a  special  meeting 
Monday  morning,  and  I  shall  try  to  get  Furness  to  come 
and  see  the  club.  He  is  a  member,  but  does  not  come 
to  New  York  except  on  business.  Don't  forget  the  poem 
for  him.  ...  I  hope  to  get  your  letter  to-morrow  or  the 
day  after.  No  nap  to-day,  and  sleepiness  prevails  ;  I 
must  to  bed.      Warm,  rainy,  narsty  day  and  night. 

On  the  30th,  Daly  is  to  give  me  a  grand  dinner  at  Del- 
monico's,  and  I  am  agonizing  over  the  speech  I  must 
make  on  the  occasion.  O  father,  father,  why  did  n't  I 
take  your  advice,  and  learn  a  trade !  (My  sign :)  "  1£. 
Thomas  Booth,  Cabinet-maker  and  job  carpenter.  Ec- 
lair, Md." 

Good  night,  dear.  May  God  bless  you  and  your  dear 
ones  ! 

From  "  Ba-Ba-Boo  "  and  Papa. 


1  i6  KDWIN    BOOTH 

The  Players,  March  i6,  1891. 

lUirtoii,  a  once  famous  comedian,  after  many 
years  of  great  success,  became  the  object  of  newspaper 
abuse,  especially  in  Phila.,  where  he  had  been  a  public 
idol.  He  had  three  good  daughters,  who  worshiped 
him,  and  whom  he  idolized.  The  Phila.  papers  became 
so  cruel  in  their  abuse  of  the  old  man,  that  he  determined 
to  avoid  all  further  contact  with  the  beasts  who  were  per- 
mitted to  vent  their  venom  on  him,  by  refusing  to  act 
again  in  that  city,  chiefly  for  his  childrens'  sake.  He  did 
not  want  them  to  read  such  horrible  scandals  about  their 
father.  T  is  childish  to  be  so  crushed  by  such  vile 
wretches,  with  whom  no  reputation  is  sacred,  private  or 
public.  There  is  no  redress,  no  preventing  the  villains' 
attacks.  The  public  man  (or  woman)  must  bear  the 
scorn,  and  stand  unshaken  by  it,  as  I  have  done.  As  in 
Burton's  case,  I  felt  keenly  the  effects  of  these  filthy  at- 
tacks solely  on  your  account,  and  I  have  hoped  that  you 
would  be  advised  by  me,  not  to  see  or  hear  them,  I  have 
long  since  ceased  to  read  "  theatrical  news,"  and  have 
succeeded  in  letting  my  "  dear  friends "  know  that  I 
avoid  such  rot,  and  that  it  is  brutal  to  mention  it  to  me. 
I  repeat  to  them  the  remark  Howells  made  to  Aldrich 
when  Aldrich  asked  him  if  he  had  heard  of  some  abuse 
of  his  (Howells's)  writings  :  "  Do  you  suppose  that  I  have 
no  bosom  friends  ?" 

Now,  that  seems  like  a  cruel  blow  at  you,  daughter, 
but  it  is  not  meant  as  such.  To  be  frank,  my  child,  I 
knew  nothing  of  the  article  which  caused  you  so  much 
trouble,  nor  have  I  yet  seen  it,  or  even  heard  of  it,  ex- 
cept from  your  letter.  It  must  have  been  very  bad  to 
affect  you  so ;  yet  I  have  not  allowed  myself  to  read  it, 
nor  has  any  one  told  me  of  it.  I  wish  that  you  would 
studiously  avoid   all   theatrical  references   in  the  papers. 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  I  I  7 

...  I  would  advise  you  all  to  ignore  such  gossip,  and 
let  those  who  offer  it  understand  that  theatrical  matters 
have  no  interest  for  you  beyond  the  stage  representation 
of  good  plays,  etc.  As  the  children  approach  the  gen- 
eral reading  age  or  the  gossipy  stage,  I  'd  dissuade  them 
from  imbibing  interest  in  such  matters.  From  this 
point  in  my  career  little  else  but  abuse  or  pitying,  faint 
praise  will  be  my  portion  of  the  dramatic  critics'  notice. 
'T  is  the  fate  of  all  artists  after  they  have  reached  their 
zenith,  and  I  have  long  expected  my  turn.  I  'm  not  in 
the  least  disturbed  by  these  so-called  critics  ;  the  public 
tells  a  different  story.  .  .  .  Just  as  I  closed  the  last  chap- 
ter of  my  sermon  your  letter  of  Friday  came.  I  hope 
you  have  one  from  me.  I  have  been  so  long  over  this, 
and  have  had  so  many  interruptions,  that  the  gloomy  day 
is  much  like  bedtime,  as  to  darkness.  I  won't  attempt 
much  more,  as  it  is  near  my  dinner  and  nap-time.  My 
health  is  far  better  than  it  has  been  the  past  year ;  my 
acting,  so  all  assure  me,  is  more  and  more  powerful  each 
night.  I  am  positive  I  have  hit  on  the  true  cause  of  my 
weakness.  Many  years  ago  (1876)  I  contracted  malaria, 
and  at  various  times  since  I  have  been  affected  by  it,  but 
not  to  such  an  extent  until  recently.  ...  I  must  hurry 
now,  for  other  interruptions  have  delayed  me ;  besides,  I 
have  nothing  to  say  beyond  expressing  my  happiness  in 
all  the  good  reports  you  send,  and  to  assure  you  of  my 
own  better  condition  in  every  respect.  .  .  .  Business  fine 
(better  than  last  year),  and  the  audiences  enthusiastic. 

Papa. 

The  Players,  P'riday  morning,  March  20,  1891. 

De.\r  daughter  : 

Wednesday  night  Barrett  was  taken  so  ill  that  he  was 
unable  to  play  "  Dc  Mauprat"  after  the  third  act  (Ilanly 


,  1  S  EDWIN    HOOTH 

finishini^'  the  part),  ami  last  iiii^ht  was  in  bed  with  a  high 
fever,  liis  wile  aiul  two  doctors  by  his  bedside.  A  severe 
cold,  with  threatened  pneumonia ;  have  not  heard  this 
morning  any  report  from  him  ;  his  wife  came  last  even- 
ing from  lioston.  It  so  happened,  as  he  broke  down,  my 
strength  and  vigor  came  up  as  suddenly.  On  Wednes- 
day night  Richdiai  was  almost  himself,  and  last  night 
Macbeth  was  as  strong  as  ever  he  was  in  my  treatment  of 
the  character.  Besides,  owing  to  Barrett's  illness,  my 
Mdciiuff  \\:ys  fresh,  and  I  had  to  teach  him  the  fight  be- 
tween the  acts  of  the  play.  I  was  forced  to  work  harder 
than  I  ever  did  in  Macbeth,  and  it  did  me  good.  I  played 
the  entire  part  better  than  for  some  years,  and  was  less 
fatigued  than  usual,  feeling  well  this  morning.  Now, 
whether  I  owe  my  rather  sudden  improvement  to  Doctor 
Smith's  little  pellets,  to  the  many  prayers  which  I  am 
daily  assured  of  by  numerous  unknown  correspondents, 
my  disuse  of  tobacco  (I  mean  in  the  form  of  cigars,  using 
a  pipe  and  mild  tabak  instead),  or  to  a  medicine  prescribed 
for  me  in  Liverpool  for  a  light  form  of  my  present 
malady,  I  know  not,  but  sure  it  is,  I  am  as  one  renewed 
since  two  days  past.  I  would  have  been  perfectly  satis- 
fied had  you  been  in  the  box  last  night.  ...  If  my  good 
turn  holds  true,  and  I  am  sure  it  will,  just  because  I  don't 
do  what  everybody  advises,  I  shall  be  quite  in  trim  for 
work  by  the  time  my  season  ends,  some  ten  days  hence. 

Poor  Barrett !  He  has  had  a  hard  pull  this  season, 
and  the  prospect  is  a  gloomy,  uphill  one.   .   .   . 

The  weather  here  has  been  cold  and  clear  the  last  few 
days ;  to-day  't  is  cloudy  and  still  very  cold.  I  fear 
damp  weather  in  the  South,  and  hope  you  may  escape 
what  I  am  sure  has  ailed  me  many  years  at  different 
times  —  malaria.  Bless  the  big  girl  and  boy,  no  longer 
babies,  in  fact;  but  I  dare  say  you  will  consider  them 
such  so   long  as  you  three  are   together.      I  '11  drop  the 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  II9 

"  old  lady  "  a  birthday  greeting  for  her  fifih-ficst  [fifth 
birthday]. 

Bromley's  report  of  Barrett  is  not  good.  The  doctors 
are  endeavoring  to  keep  off  the  pneumonia ;  still,  they 
fear  it.  He  must  not  leave  his  room  for  at  least  ten  days. 
The  business  must  be  rearranged  for  the  company  after 
my  engagement  ends,  week  after  next;  till  then  I  must 
do  the  best  I  can.  He  may  pull  up  after  a  week's  rest. 
My  desk  is  one  mass  of  unanswered  letters,  most  of  them 
begging  for  large  sums  of  money.   .   .   . 

Is  n't  there  an  order  of  "  Crutched  Friars  "  ?  In  old 
times  there  was ;  there  is  an  old  monastery  at  Cripple- 
gate,  London.  Ignatius  might  attend  the  ball  as  one  of 
them,  with  my  Don  Ccssar's  gown  and  cowl,  and  his  own 
crutches/  with  Mildred  as  Maritaiia,  and  Clarence  as 
Do7i  CcBsar,  and  you  as  the  old  Marchioness  with  a  painted 
nose.      Shall  I  send  the  costumes  ?    .    .    . 

This  is  a  long  letter  with  nothing  in  it,  but 't  is  the  only 
kind  I  can  write  ;  it  is  next  to  impossible  for  me  to  an- 
swer letters.  I  can  only  scribble,  and  shirk  all  that 
smacks  of  business,  which  most  of  my  neglected  corre- 
spondence treats  of      God  bless  you  ! 

Papa. 

The  Players,  March  22,  1891. 
Dear  daughter: 

I  'm  in  no  mood  for  letter-writing  to-day.  The  shock,- 
so  sudden  and  so  distressing,  and  the  gloomy,  depressing 
weather,  entirely  unfit  me  for  the  least  exertion  —  even 
to  think.  Hosts  of  friends,  all  eager  to  assist  poor  Mrs. 
Barrett,  seem  helpless  in  confusion,  and  all  the  details  of 
the  sad  business  seem  to  be  huddled  on  her.   .   .   . 

I  My  husband  was  on  crutches,  owinp  to  a  severe  accident. 
*  Mr.  Lawrence  Barrett's  death. 


I20  EDWIN    1500TH 

General  Sherman's  son,  "  Father  Tom,"  as  he  is  affec- 
tionately called  by  all  the  family  and  the  friends  of  the 
dear  old  i;eneral,  will  attend.  He  was  summoned  from 
luirope  recently  to  his  father's  death-bed,  and  he  happens 
to  be  in  time  to  perform  services  for  his  father's  friend, 
poor  Lawrence.  After  the  services  to-morrow,  at  lO  A.  M., 
the  remains  and  a  few  friends  will  go  direct  to  Cohasset 
for  burial, — Tuesday, — where  Barrett  had  only  two  weeks 
ago  placed  his  mother,  removed  from  her  New  York 
grave  to  a  family  lot  which  he  had  recently  purchased  at 
Cohasset.  He  had  also  enlarged  his  house  there,  where 
he  intended  to  pass  his  old  age  in  privacy.  Doctor  Smith 
was  correct  in  his  assertion  that  the  glandular  disease  was 
incurable,  and  that  the  surgical  operation  would  prolong 
life  only  a  year  or  so ;  the  severe  cold  produced  pneu- 
monia, which  Barrett's  physicians  say  might  have  been 
overcome  but  for  the  glandular  disease  still  in  his  blood. 
Mrs.  Barrett  knew  from  the  first  operation  that  he  had  at 
most  a  year  or  so  to  live,  and  yet  by  the  doctor's  advice 
kept  it  secret,  and  did  everything  to  cheer  and  humor 
him.  She  's  a  remarkable  woman.  She  has  been  ex- 
pecting to  be  suddenly  called  to  him  for  more  than  a  year 
past,  yet  the  blow  came  with  terrible  force.  Milly'  and 
her  husband  came  last  night.  I  have  not  seen  Lawrence 
since  death ;  when  I  saw  him  Thursday  he  was  in  a  burn- 
ing fever,  and  asked  me  to  keep  away  for  fear  his  breath 
might  affect  me,  and  it  pained  him  to  talk.  He  pulled 
through  three  acts  of  "  De  Mauprat  "  the  night  before,  and 
sent  for  his  wife  that  night.  His  death  was  very  peaceful, 
with  no  sign  of  pain.  A  couple  of  weeks  ago  he  and  I 
were  to  meet  General  Sherman  at  dinner:  Death  came 
instead.  To-night,  Barrett  had  invited  about  twenty 
distinguished  men  to  meet  me  at  Delmonico's,  and 
again    the    grim    guest    attends.       One    of    his    oldest 

'  Mr.  Barrett's  youngest  daughter. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  121 

friends  has  just  left  me,  after  an  interruption  of  half  an 
hour.   .   .   . 

My  room  is  like  an  office  of  some  state  official :  letters, 
telegrams,  and  callers  come  every  moment,  some  on  busi- 
ness, many  in  sympathy.  Three  hours  have  elapsed  since  I 
finished  the  last  sentence,  and  I  expect  a  call  from  Brom- 
ley before  I  retire.  A  world  of  business  matters  has 
been  disturbed  by  this  sudden  break  of  contracts  with 
actors  and  managers,  and  everything  pertaining  to  next 
season,  as  well  as  much  concerning  the  balance  of  the 
present  one,  must  be  rearranged  or  canceled.  I,  of  course, 
am  free ;  but  for  the  sake  of  the  company  I  shall  fulfil 
my  time,  to  pay  their  salaries,  this  week  here ;  and  next 
week  in  Brooklyn,  as  they  were  engaged  by  Barrett  for 
my  engagement.  After  which  they  will  be  out  of  em- 
ployment for  the  balance  of  the  season.  ...  I  hope 
Ignatius  is  nearly  well,  and  the  rest  of  you  entirely  so. 
Heaven  grant  that  the  weather  will  be  settled  and  favor- 
able for  your  sojourn  in  Washington ;  don't  risk  the 
journey  otherwise.  .  .  .  My  wits  are  about  dried  up 
now,  and  I  '11  cease  my  efforts  at  epistolary  spelling. 

I  am  steadily  gaining  strength  and  losing  vertigo.    God 

bless  you  !     Love  for  all. 

Papa. 

P.  S. —  I  am  all  right,  but  out  of  sorts  with  the  heat. 


New  York,  Sunday  night,  June  24,  1892. 

.  .  .  I  'vc  tried  to  write  you  for  a  week  past,  but 
I  've  given  up  in  despair,  although  the  weather  has  not 
been  my  excuse,  for  several  days.  Sheer  laziness  has 
overwhelmed  me,  and  to-day  especially  I  have  simply 
loafed  away  the  day  well  on  to  miclniL;ht  merely  trying  to 
write  you  a  line.      It  will  he  but  a  line  or  so  at  that,  for 


1  jj  i:i)\vii\  r.ooTii 

I  .Mil  the  "kinc:-pin"  of  laziness,'  although  I  am  very 
iiiiicli  better  in  health,  and  every  way  feel  more  like  my 
former  self,  though  that  's  not  much  to  boast  of.  Your 
condition  is  of  nuich  more  account  tome.  I  do  hope  your 
general  health  is  greatly  improved,  and  I  hope  the  babies 
will  continue  to  thrive.  Don't  worry  about  them;  so 
long  as  they  get  such  air  and  surroundings,  they  are  safe. 
Tell  Miss  Mildred  grandpa  has  not  forgotten  her  sweet 
letter,  and  will  answer  it  soon,  but  can  only  send  her,  and 
"  Cancy,"  too,  lots  of  good-night  kisses  now.  I  've  oh 
so  many  lots  of  letters  on  business  that  I  must  first  get 
rid  of,  and  it  is  getting  hot  again.  I  'II  soon  make  up  my 
mind  when  I  'II  leave  town,  but  not  yet.    .    .    . 


The  Players,  January  29,  1893. 
Mv  DARLixc;  daughter: 

So  long  a  time  has  elapsed  since  we  communicated 
with  each  other  that  you  must  have  given  up  all  hope  of 
ever  hearing  again  from  me.  I  have  been  exceedingly 
lazy ;  I  can  offer  no  other  excuse.  Every  day  for  the 
last  month  I  have  determined  to  write,  but  time  has 
passed,  and  my  girl  still  neglected.  Try  to  forgive  me, 
and  I  'II  do  better  after  this ;  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to 
get  through  this,  although  I  am  in  many  respects  far  bet- 
ter in  every  way  than  when  you  left,  ten  days  ago.  I 
have  been  out  only  twice  in  all  that  time,  but  have  ac- 
cepted a  visit  to  Daly's  during  the  week,  and  shall  try 
to  go  oftener  during  the  coming  week  or  two.   I  have  my 

Dr.   R apply  the   electricity  here  instead  of  at   his 

office,  and  feel  it  of  much  benefit.     Have  not  seen  much 
of  Dr.  S ;  he  has  been  very  busy.      I  have  Aldrich 

'  My  father  ever  attributed  his  condition  to  laziness,  sleepiness,  etc.  His  fatal 
disease,  unknown  to  himself,  but  feared  by  all  who  loved  him,  was  undermining 
him  gradually  but  surely. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  I  23 

and  his  boy  Tal  here  at  present.  .  .  .  My  hand  is  so 
shaky  I  can  barely  write  plain,  as  you  see.  What  a  bad 
time  you  had  !  The  fire  must  have  scared  you  all  very 
much.  I  hope  all  your  troubles  are  over,  and  that  the 
rest  of  your  Southern  tour  will  be  joyous.  Give  lots  of 
grandpa's  love  and  kisses  to  his  wee  ones,  and  tell  them 
to  hurry  home  to  look  after  him.  We  have  had  lots  of 
cold  but  rather  wet  weather  :  it  's  muggy  and  disagree- 
able to-day.  The  club  is  pretty  well  full  all  the  time, 
but  I  keep  up-stairs,  and  see  but  few  people.  God  bless 
and  guard  you  ! 

Papa. 


The  Players,  February  19,  1893. 

...  I  believe  it  is  three  weeks  since  I  wrote  to  you. 
I  don't  know  why  I  have  let  so  long  a  time  pass ;  it 
seems  much  longer — quite  three  months  ;  and  I  can  offer 
no  better  reason  for  my  neglect  than  sheer  laziness, 
which  you,  of  course,  attribute  to  illness  or  something 
more  serious.  But  I  assure  you  that  nothing  more  — 
only  laziness,  reading  newspapers,  and  my  natural  state 
of  loaf,  are  the  cause  of  my  condition  ;  so  don't  worry  in 
the  least,  but  scold  me  roundly.  So  it  has  been  day  af- 
ter day  until  now,  when  I  find  myself  overwhelmed  by  a 
heap  of  unanswered  letters,  many  of  which  I  have  put  off 
to  Harry  and  Bispham,  who  have  kindly  written  for  me 
while  I  snooze  on  the  sofa  in  my  back  room.  I  can't  ac- 
count for  it,  except  my  lack  of  exercise.  I  do  nothing 
but  snooze  all  day,  and  see  very  few  to  talk  to,  except 
the  doctors.  I  have  three  now,  who  apply  electricity, 
and  all  sorts  of  disagreeable,  but  not  painful,  performances 
everyday.  .  .  .  Two  hours  at  least  must  have  escaped 
me  since  I  began  this,  and  yet  I  have  n't  written  half  a 
letter;   I  thought  I  had  matter  enough  for  a  good  long 


1-4 


KDWIN    BOOTH 


leltcr,  after  so  long  an  absence,  but  I  find  myself  almost 
cliiiub  already.  I  '11  do  better  next  time  ;  I  have  a  letter 
somewhere  from  a  two-year-old  baby.  I  meant  to  send 
it  to  our  babies  in  reply  to  their  sweet  letter  to  me  the 
other  day,  but  I  can't  find  it  on  my  crowded  desk  to-night. 
God  bless  you  all  ! 

I  can't  do  an\-  more  at  present,  but  in  a  few  days  I 
hope  to  do  better  ;  but  the  last  time  I  tried  I  had  to  wire 
you.  I  went  with  Bispham  to  Daly's  one  night;  but  it 
did  n't  stir  me  up  at  all,  and  though  I  have  promised  to 
go  again  in  a  night  or  two,  I  doubt  if  it  will  induce  me 
to  be  an  actor,  like  Clarence  or  Mildred.'  I  '11  go  down- 
stairs to-morrow  to  meet  him  —  my  third  visit  to  the  club 
as  yet  ;  have  remained  up-stairs  three  weeks,  I  think, 
since  I  "  came  aboard."  Harry  stays  with  me  late  every 
night,  and  so  does  Bispham  almost  every  day.  Good 
night.     God  bless  you  !     I  hope  all  the  bad  weather  is 

gone  at  last. 

Papa. 


The  Players,  February  26,  1893. 

.  .  .  Again  it  seems  as  tho'  a  year  has  passed  since  I 
wrote  to  you,  so  long  a  time  it  seems ;  but  I  can't  com- 
plain oi your  silence  or  neglect  of  me,  for  you  have  been 
very  prompt,  and  every  now  and  then  I  receive  your 
welcome  letters,  darling,  which  make  me  very  happy  in  my 
gloomy  club-room  ;  for  I  seldom  go  out  or  down-stairs, 
keeping  up-stairs  nearly  all  the  time.  Have  been  only  to 
Daly's,  and  shall  go  again  there  to  see  the  "  Twelfth 
Night"  on  Tuesday.  I  have  made  my  two  visits,  and 
don't  feel  yet  the  least  desire  for  the  stage,  although  my 
two  visits  have  set  all  the  managers  and  agents  after  me 
for  engagements,  of  course.   .   .  .  The  numerous  letters 

*  My  father  had  noted  much  dramatic  talent  in  my  little  children. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  1 25 

from  unheard-of  great  actors,  who  have  been  waiting  my 
return  to  the  Shaksperian  stage,  is  overwhelming,  too  ; 
I  had  no  idea  of  so  many.  To  give  you  some  notion  of 
how  long  it  takes  for  me  to  write  so  slight  a  letter,  I  think 
I  've  been  since  4  o'clock  since  I  began  scribbling  this, 
and  have  not  ended  yet.  .  .  .  Yet  I  am  a  great  deal 
better  in  many  respects.  Latterly  I  have  had  a  cougn 
that  troubles  me  somewhat,  but  that  is  nothing  much.  .  .  . 
To-day  has  snowed  us  up,  and  every  day  or  so  we  have 
had  heavy  snows  or  summer  weather.  There  is  a  great 
Itahan  actress  here,  a  Mile.  Duse,  the  greatest  yet,  they 
say.  I  shall  see  her  in  a  few  nights.  .  .  .  Tell  "babbies" 
grandpa  has  forgotten  how  to  spell,  and  when  I  learn 
again,  I  '11  write  them  a  good  letter.  God  bless  'em,  and 
tell  'em  to  write  me  another  just  such  a  sweet,  long  letter, 
and  good  night.  God  bless  'em  with  all  sorts  of  good 
nights,  and  God  bless  their  dear  mama !     Love  for  all. 


Dear  father  !  His  health  had  begun  to  fail  rap- 
idly, and  my  enforced  absence  in  the  South,  through 
illness  in  my  family,  was  a  constant  source  of  anx- 
iety and  worry  to  me.  I  longed  ever  to  be  with 
him,  not  knowing  how  much  longer  I  might  have 
that  happiness.  In  a  few  short  weeks  he  was  taken 
from  me,  but  not  before  I  had  the  joy  of  his  loved 
presence  for  a  while  in  my  home.  The  pathos  of 
these  last  letters  is  made  more  pathetic  still,  when 
one  considers  the  heroic  and  loving  efforts  he  made 
to  write  to  me,  although  enfeebled  physically  and 
mentally.  It  was  but  one  more  proof  of  his  un- 
selfish, devoted  paternal  love. 


126  F.nWlN    BOOTH 

The  Plavkks,  New  York,  March  4,  1893. 
Mv  DKAR  i)AL't;iiri:R: 

Alter  many  attempts,  I  have  "my  pen  in  hand"  for  a 
final  one  before  my  t^ood  night.  Although  I  wired  you 
the  hist  thing  last  night  before  going  to  dine  with  Bis- 
pham  that  I  would  write  you  to-day,  I  almost  broke  my 
word,  and  failed  to  keep  faith,  and  let  you  pass  for  another 
week,  for  just  as  I  began  this  several  callers  came  to  in- 
terrupt me.  Another  day  is  about  gone,  and  Sunday 
night  is  creeping  ahead  of  mc,  and  no  letter  mailed  for 
you  yet.    ...    I  can't  account  for  it.    .    .    . 

Although  I  have  both  darlings'  letters  on  my  desk,  I 
can't  muster  energy  enough  to  write  my  love  for  them, 
but  only  silently  wish  them  all  sorts  of  good  things,  to 
share  with  darling  mama,  with  my  loving  thoughts.  God 
bless  them  all  !  I  have  been  all  day  over  this,  stopping 
every  now  and  then  to  think,  unable  to  write  a  decent 
letter.  I  '11  soon  do  better.  It  's  dark  almost  every  day, 
because  of  the  heavy  snow-storms  or  threatened  ones, 
though  to-day  the  sun  shines  after  a  heavy  storm  of  yes- 
terday and  last  night.  I  can't  scribble  even  half  that  I 
hoped  for  to-day,  after  my  failure  to  telegraph  you  more 
than  I  did  yesterday.  I  managed  to  go  to  the  play  two 
or  three  times  ;  but  it  merely  tired  me,  and  gave  me  no 
pleasure. 

I  'm  reading  the  "Journal  of  a  Young  Artist  —  Marie 
Bashkirtseff,"  a  remarkable  book.  Beginning  at  twelve 
years  of  age,  the  girl  moralizes  and  philosophizes  like 
llamlct.  Of  course  she  died  young — at  twenty-four.  .  .  . 
Good-bye.     And  again  God  bless  you  ! 

Pop. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    DAUGHTER  1 27 

New  York,  March  15,  1893. 

...  It  seems  a  most  difficult  task  for  me  to  write  a 
simple  letter,  even  to  spell.  I  don't  know  what  is  the 
cause.  I  certainly  am  much  better  than  I  was,  in  all 
respects,  until  I  attempt  to  write,  when  all  my  wits  seem 
to  go  astray,  and  my  nerves  get  beyond  control.  Several 
days  have  gone  without  my  having  had  energy  to  write 
more  than  a  telegram  to  you,  which  I  did  also  yesterday. 
If  I  could  take  exercise,  I  believe  I  should  gradually  grow 
stronger.  My  'lectric  doctors  are  now  reduced  to  two  ; 
I  formerly  had  four  a  day.  After  breakfast  I  take  a  paper 
and  lie  on  my  sofa  in  the  back  room,  where  I  get  most 
sunlight,  till  about  3:30  or  4  o'clock,  when  I  dine  a 
little,  and  after  go  to  Carryl's  or  Bispham's,  or  to  the 
play,  in  order  to  get  a  vain  hope  for  an  interest  in  the 
theatre.  My  deafness  is  so  much  increased  that  I  don't 
hear  a  word  that  is  spoken  on  the  stage.  ...  I  won't 
promise  any  more,  but  I  '11  try  to  finish  this  badly  begun 
letter  in  the  morning.  'T  is  quite  late  now, —  eight  and  a 
half,  at  least  ;  just  my  bedtime, —  and  dear  old  Harry 
stays  with  me  to  tuck  me  up,  and  say  good  night,  till  the 
last,  every  night.  I  miss  you  all  very  much,  but  am 
glad  you  escaped  this  bad  weather. 

March  16.  Good  morning,  my  little  ones  !  Only  't  is 
nearly  evening  again  ;  the  way  I  let  time  slip  away  is  a 
caution  to  babies.  I  left  this  letter  to  mama  last  night, 
meaning  to  finish  it  for  her  this  morning ;  but  't  is  now 
nearly  to-morrow  evening  ahead,  and  I  'm  just  about 
awake,  and  have  only  just  scratched  a  few  lines  addressed 
to  my  good  little  "Babes  in  the  Woods"  'way  down  South, 
where  't  is  nice  and  warm,  amongst  the  birds  and  flowers. 
Here  't  is  just  as  cold  as  winter  still.  I  'm  really  cold  and 
shivering  while  I  try  to  write.  ...  I  hope  you  arc  still 
all  well.     If  you  are  always  as  good  as  you  are  now,  and 


uS  KD\VL\    BOOTH 

have  been  this  summer,  I  'm  sure  the  good  angels  will  take 
"ood  guartl  oi'  you,  and  bring  you  all  to  our  happy  home 
in  Now  \'ork,  to  see  grandpa,  who  is  anxious  to  see  his  old 
babies  again.  Now,  you  see,  I  've  managed  to  write  two 
letters  for  you  (>'ou  and  mama  in  one,  you  see).  That  's 
for  waiting  so  long.  Well,  I  've  told  you  about  all  I 
know,  so  now  good-bye.  .  ,  .  Give  'em  my  love  and 
(ioel  bless  'em   for  grandpa.      With   many   loving  kisses. 

The  Players, 
Tuesday,  4:30  P.  M.,  April  17,  1893. 
De.\r  daughter  : 

I  rose  very  late  this  morning,  and  brought  with  me  an 
all-night  and  permanent  headache,  which  still  sways  me 
after  a  long  nap  on  the  sofa  till  just  now ;  I  hope  to 
get  rid  of  it  and  be  soon  with  you  for  a  while  this  even- 
ing. Will  send  for  coupe;  am  sorry  that  I  did  not  send 
word  earlier.  Very  sorry  your  cold  is  worse,  but  am 
glad  that  you  take  care  of  it,  and  have  stayed  indoors, 
for  it  seems  quite  cold  here. 

If  I  should  not  get  out,  don't  worry  ;  I  am  quite  well, 
except  my  stupid  headache,  that  will  perhaps  keep  me  in 
the  house.  Nothing  worse.  I  hope  't  is  better  with  you, 
and  nothing  worse  with  you  all. 

God  bless  you  !  Papa. 


The  above  is  my  father's  last  letter  to  me.  On 
the  following  morning  he  was  taken  ill  (Wednes- 
day, April  18). 

On  the  previous  evening  he  came  to  my  house, 
as  usual,  to  dinner,  and,  although  very  feeble,  he 
seemed  bright,  and  spoke  of  his  pleasure  in  still 
beincT  able  to  come  to  us.      It  was  his  last  visit. 


LETTERS  TO  HIS 
FRIENDS 


LETTERS  TO  HIS 
FRIENDS 

LETTER   TO    CAPT.    RICHARD   F.   GARY. 

430  FRANKLIX  ST.,  June  30,   i860. 

Friend  Richard  : 

I  pray  your  highness  to  pardon  my  long  delay  in  re- 
plying to  your  last  kind  letter ;  but  the  fact  is,  my  head 
is  turned.  I  am  like  the  chap  of  old  who  wrote  to  his 
father,  ending  with  this  line,  "  I  am,  my  dearest  charmer, 
ever  thine."  In  short,  my  head  is  full  of  "  Marry  Mary 
—  marry  —  marriage."  Those  are  the  three  important 
degrees  at  present.  The  second,  which  implies  fear, 
hope,  regret,  bliss,  love,  etc.,  being  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
anything  except  suicide ;  so  bear  with  me,  Richard,  and 
don't  "  impute  my  silence  to  light  love  "  of  your  delight- 
ful company,  but  rather  to  the  tumultuous  heavings  of 
that  sea  through  which  you  have  already  passed  to  a  joy- 
ful haven.  Phew !  It  takes  me  so  long  to  reach  a  period 
that  I  almost  lose  the  thread  of  my  "  yarn  "  on  the  jour- 
ney. This  day  week — July  7  —  "young  Edwin"  is  no 
more !  A  sober,  steady  paterfamilias  will  then  (excuse  me 
a  moment,  there  's  a  hand-organ  playing  "  Love  not  "  un- 
der my  window,  and  I  must  defer  this  till  a  more  appro- 
priate air  strikes  up).  Half  an  hour  has  elapsed,  and 
"  A  te  O  Cara"  swells  on  the  air — a  more  inspiring  melody 
than  the  former,  but  still  not  sufficiently  so  to  stimulate 


Ijj  EDWIN   BOOTH 

me  to  the  performance  of  a  task  (to  mc  almost  impossible), 
that  of  writiiii;  a  sensible  letter.  You  see  how  I  have 
been  r.unblint;  off.  I  'vc  said  nothing  as  yet,  and  yet 
iicarl}'  the  whole  of  my  sheet  is  filled.  So  I  go.  This  is 
a  jianorama  of  my  brain  at  present — wandering  about 
(rom  "  nix  "  to  nothing.  I  wonder  if  it  will  be  as  hot  as 
this  next  month ;  I  hope  not.  I  am  going  to  Lake 
George,  and  then  shoot  about  the  "farm"'  till  I  strike 
the  Saginaw,  and  return  by  the  way  of  Boston,  etc.  I 
hope  I  '11  see  you  there  ;  will  let  you  know  when.  For 
the  present,  adieu ;  with  all  the  best  wishes  for  thee  and 
thine,  of 

Yours  distractedly,  Booth. 


TO    RICHARD   F.    GARY.       1860. 

.  .  .  I  'm  "  orph,"  but  whether  for  Italy,  France,  or 
"  Merrie  England  "  depends  upon — away,  away  from  here 
at  all  events.  Art  degenerates  below  the  standard  even 
of  a  trade  in  America.  My  taste  is  becoming  vitiated ; 
my  love  of  it  is  dying  out;  and  I  need  the  recuperation. 
Badeau  speaks  both  languages  fluently,  and  will  be  a  valu- 
able companion  "  du  voyage."  The  only  trouble  will  be, 
I  shall  have  a  wife  to  look  after  .  .  .  but  I  dare  say  I 
shall  have  ample  opportunities  to  study  art  in  its  native 
atmosphere,  and  to  inhale  enough  of  the  latter  to  vivify 
my  future  productions  with  something  of  the  true  and 
beautiful.  I  can  go  on  traveling  through  this  country 
four,  perhaps  five,  years  longer,  and  make  a  great  deal  of 
money;  but  money  is  not  what  I  want — nor  position 
either,  unless  I  can  feel  within  the  consciousness  of  de- 
serving it.  Fortune  has  placed  me  in  (for  my  years)  a 
high,  and,  many  think,  an  enviable,  position,  but  I  feel  the 

1  My  father's  birthplace,  Belair,  Maryland,  which  he  always  called  the  "farm." 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 33 

ground  tremble  beneath  my  feet,  and  I  'm  perfectly  well 
aware  that  unless  I  aim  at  a  larger  circumference  than  the 
rim  of  the  "  almighty  dollar  "  (which  one  can't  help  in 
America),  I  '11  go  down  "eye-deep"  in  the  quicksand  of 
popular  favor.  When  "vox  populi"  gets  hoarse,  gargles 
won't  help  it,  so  I  think  I  had  better  leave  in  the  full  cry 
of"  Come  back  to  me  !  "  as  Mrs.  "  Bevish  "  wrote  to  Hee- 
nan.  "  I  've  had  the  usual  vicissitudes  of  the  son  of  the 
Muses  "  since  I  saw  you.  Nashville  (barring  the  beautiful 
ladies)  disgusted  me  ;  Charleston  revived,  and  this  place 
raised  my  expectation  to  such  a  height  that,  like  Macbeth' s 
ambition,  it  went  clean  over  the  saddle,  and  fell  on  t'other 
side — fifteen  hundred  dollars  in  one  little  week  !  I  go  to 
St.  Louis  from  here,  then  to  Philadelphia,  then  to  Hy- 
men !  Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  ere  then.  My  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  C,  and  beUeve  me  ever, 

Your  friend,  Booth. 


TO   RICHARD   F.   GARY. 

New  York,  Dec.  4,  i860. 
My  dear  Dick: 

I  rec'd  a  letter  from  you  just  as  I  had  mailed  my  last. 
I  '11  give  you  only  a  few  lines  this  time,  as  I  'm  ill.  I  send 
you  some  notices.  My  engagement  has  not  been  thus  far 
successful,  pecuniarily,  but  otherwise  a  triumph.  I  've  had 
the  best  people,  and  the  entire  press  yields  me  the  palm, 
particularly  as  Hamlet,  although  Richelieu  has  made  the 
mark.  There  are  constant  inquiries  at  the  box-office  for 
it ;  just  my  luck.    .    .    . 

I  send  you  a  lot  of  scraps  Mollic  has  cut  from  the  papers 
for  you.    .    .    .    Cushman  is  doing  so-so  at  the   Boston. 
She  is  down  rm  me  as  an  actor ;   says  T  don't  know  any- 
thing at  all  about  "  Hamlet,"  so  she  is  going  to  play  here 
9* 


1  .^  KDWIN    BOOTH 

in   Vcb.     I  can't  go  South,  sure.     Hurry  up  and  make 

your  fortune,  that  we  may  have  a  decent  theatre. 

The  company  is  most  atrocious  here ;  they  ruin  all  I 

attt-mpt.      Be  sure  ;;//  /fMf/:  /s  made  here,  and  with  the 

best  people,  too.      I  '11  draw  like  a  blister  the  next  visit. 

Mrs.  B.  sends  her  kind  regards.     Remember  us  at  home 

when  you  write.     Yours  ever, 

Ned. 


TO    CAPT.  RICHARD   Y.  GARY. 

Sunday,  30,  1861. 
Mv  DEAR  Dick: 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  sad  I  feel  at  your  going  away 
without  bidding  you  good-bye.  After  several  ineffectual 
attempts  to  find  the  camp,  I  yesterday  succeeded.  Cov- 
ered with  dust,  "  headached,"  and  broiled,  my  wife  and  I 
reached  the  ground  just  in  time  to  see  the  parade  dis- 
missed, when  I  learned  that  you  were  absent. 

I  had  to  visit  New  York  last  week,  where  I  found  my 
mother,  sister,  and  Joe.  He  gives  a  glowing  account  of 
the  fight.  Says  no  07ie  was  killed.  Ten  times  the  num- 
ber of  rebels  could  not  have  taken  the  fort,  by  any 
means,  had  Anderson  been  provisioned.  We  all  start  at 
7  A.  M.  to-morrow  for  Bethel,  Me.,  where  I  hope  to  have 
a  quiet  time  for  a  few  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which  I  sin- 
cerely hope  to  be  summoned  to  England.  I  've  already 
received  a  request  to  visit  the  Haymarket,  and  about  the 
middle  of  July  I  shall  know  definitely.  But  enough  of 
myself.  I  manage,  somehow,  to  appear  very  egotistical 
in  my  letters;   I  write  of  nothing  else,   it  seems. 

My  dear  Dick,  you  will  not,  I  hope,  omit  any  oppor- 
tunity to  "post"  me  as  to  your  whereabouts,  etc.  I  shall 
read  with  anxiety  and   interest  every  bulletin  from  the 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  1 35 

seat  of  war,  and  pray  ever  for  your  safety  and  distinction 
—  of  that  I  am  sure,  if  you  only  get  a  chance.  My  wife 
sends  her  blessings  and  heartfelt  good-bye,  and  her  sin- 
cere regret  at  not  seeing  you.  There  is  no  need  of  pro- 
testation, I  trust,  on  my  part,  to  assure  you  of  the  regret, 
the  anxiety,  the  hope,  the  fear,  I  feel  for  you,  but  I  will 
say,  God  in  heaven  bless  and  protect  you  !  That  you  may 
return  unscathed  and  glorious  shall  be  the  constant,  fer- 
vent prayer  of  Your  friend 

Ned. 


Boston,  Aug.  4,  1861. 
My  dear  Dick  : 

I  was  truly  delighted  at  receiving  your  letter ;  I  was 
afraid  I  should  hear  nothing  of  you  before  I  left  for  Eu- 
rope. This  announcement  surprises  you,  no  doubt,  but  so 
it  is,  Dick  ;  I  am  off  for  the  Haymarket  at  last.  I  received 
a  hint  ere  I  went  to  Bethel,  and  while  there  a  most  substan- 
tial inducement  came  in  the  shape  of  an  offer  from  the 
management,  and  I  sail  on  the  7th  (next  Wednesday)  on 
the  Arabia.  You  may  imagine  how  upside  down  every- 
thing is  with  me  now  ;  having  many  things  to  buy,  and 
many  to  dispose  of — among  the  latter  is  a  horse  which  I 
drove  out  to  Camp  Andrew  a  few  days  before  I  left  town. 
I  wish  you  were  a  Col.,  I  would  give  him  to  you.  Your 
sister  called  on  Mollie  '  the  other  day,  and  promised  to 
see  her  again  before  we  go,  as  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  go 
to  Nahant,  as  we  intended.  My  dear  Dick,  how  I  long  to 
grasp  your  hand  ere  I  go,  but  fate  has  ordained  it  other- 
wise, and  I  know  that  your  advice  would  be  to  "  go  with- 
out delay."  It  is  the  grand  turning-point  of  my  career, 
and  though  it  pains  me  to  leave  my  country  at  this  time, 
I  look  forward  with  a  heart  full  of  hope  that  I  may  achieve 

1  My  mother. 


,  .()  EDWIN    BOOTH 

abroad  all  that  you  may  desire  for  me.  Here  have  I  been 
ci^otisticallyscribblinc:"!,"  "I,"  "I,"  throughout  the  whole 
letter,  and  not  a  word  for  you.  You  know  that  I  am  not 
so  selfish  as  all  that,  don't  you  ?  As  Hotspur  says  some- 
where, "  By  God  !  I  cannot  flatter,  but  in  my  heart  there 
is  no  man  holds  a  prouder  place  than  Richard  Gary,"  or 
words  to  that  eftect.  And  I  do  hold  you  proudly,  Dick; 
I  am  proud  of  your  friendship  ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  and 
pra\-  that  "  ere  the  fight  be  o'er  "  your  name  may  be 
among  the  proudest  of  your  country's  saviors. 

God  bless  you,  my  boy  !  Don't  get  tired  of  the  hard 
fare;  your  patriotism  is  not  in  the  stomach,  I  know,  but 
stick  to  the  flag,  Dick,  as  I  intend  to  do,  though  far  away. 
.  .  .  God  bless  you  !  Mollie  joins  me  in  love  for  you. 
If  there  is  a  possibility  of  sending  me  a  letter  now  and 
then  to  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  do  so,  and  I  '11  keep 
you    posted.      Adieu.     May    God    protect   you !      Your 

friend, 

Ned. 


TO    MR.  RICHARD   GARY. 

London,  Thursday,  March  20,  1862. 

.  .  .  Yesterday's  mail  brought  me  the  mournful  ti- 
dings of  Prof.  Felton's  death.  I  know  of  nothing  short  of 
your  own,  or  of  some  of  my  family's  death,  that  could 
have  shocked  me  more.  My  wife  had  a  letter  from  your 
sister  Emma,  telling  us  of  the  melancholy  blow  which  has 
deprived  us  of  one  of  our  proudest  ornaments,  and  also 
giving  me  some  idea  of  what  you  have  been  doing.  I  am 
delighted  that  you  were  chosen  to  so  important  a  mission  ; 
it  shows  what  confidence  is  reposed  in  you.  I  suppose 
by  this  time  you  are  in  the  heat  of  the  fray.  God  forbid 
that  another  letter  from  Cambridge  should  bring  me  simi- 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   FRIENDS  1 37 

lar  intelligence  to  the  last,  but  that  one  from  you  will 
cheer  me  with  glorious  news  of  yourself  in  particular  and 
of  the  whole  army  in  general.  The  "  Times  "  is  so  very 
rabid  against  us  that  I  left  it  off  some  time  ago  ;  but  I  be- 
lieve it  advocates  a  monarchy  for  America  as  the  only 
chance  for  us.  It  is  consistent,  at  all  events,  and  that  is 
one  thing  in  its  favor.  I  take  such  papers  as  give  us  a 
fair  and  truthful  account  of  things,  but  such  papers  are 
called   "  bla'guard  "  sheets,   of  course. 

I  am  going  to  Paris  on  Saturday;  shall  remain  till 
Tuesday  morning,  merely  to  get  an  idea  of  the  place  be- 
fore going  there  with  my  family,  ...  I  am  writing 
under  tenfold  difficulties ;  my  pen  won't  work,  as  you 
may  see,  my  neuralgia  keeps  me  in  a  state  of  "worry," 
and  my  baby  is  squalling  like  fury.  Having  been  vacci- 
nated, she  is  suffering  in  consequence,  and,  to  cap  all,  I 
have  nothing  of  interest  to  write  about.  I  have  not  forgot- 
ten the  "  Dramatic  College  "  periodical  you  spoke  of,  but 
I  can  find  out  nothing  in  relation  to  it ;  I  do  not  think  it 
is  started  yet. 

I  think  the  fall  will  find  me  in  Boston  again,  a  poorer 
but  a  wiser  man  than  when  I  left  there ;  but  do  not  say 
aught  about  it!  And  so  General  Lander  is  dead  !  There  's 
another  heavy  loss.  I  was  not  aware  of  his  illness  until 
the  news  of  his  death  reached  us.  I  suppose  you  get 
all  the  floating  news  of  Boston.  E.  L.  [Davenport]  has 
been  astonishing  the  solid  men  with  his  Hamlet  at  the 
Academy.  .  .  .  I  see  that  some  of  the  regiments  have 
theatrical  entertainments,  and  that  Luc  Denin  has  been 
acting  for  them.  Do  you  ever  take  part  ?  Send  for  Alice 
.  .  .  and  she  might  "  do  "  the  "  Marble  Heart  "  to  per- 
fection under  canvas.  God  bless  you,  Dick  !  Give  me  a 
long  account  of  yourself  and  doings  ;  tell  mc  how  you 
look.  I  suppose  your  beard  is  quite  ferocious  now ;  you 
will  perceive  that  I  have  allowed  my  hair  to  grow,  a  la 


,  '^S  KDWIN    BOOTH 

l-\>riucs ;  quite  classic,  is  it  not  ?  .  .  .  I  wonder  if  it 
will  bo  your  lot  to  enter  Memphis  as  a  conqueror,  or  are 
you  destined  for  another  point  of  the  compass?  Mrs. 
Booth  joins  me  in  prayers  for  your  dear  safety,  and  is 
as  anxious  as  I  to  hear  from  you. 

Ever  your  friend,  Ned. 


TO    MRS.    FELTON,  CAMBRIDGE. 

New  York,  Sept.  ii,  1862. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Felton: 

So  soon  as  I  heard  of  dear  Richard's  death,  which  in- 
formation I  did  not  receive  for  several  days  after  my  ar- 
rival, I  endeavored  in  a  very  feeble  letter  to  his  bereaved 
widow  to  express  the  grief  this  cruel  blow  has  caused  me, 
and  to  offer  her  some  little  consolation,  I  could  not 
realize,  even  while  writing  it,  that  my  dear  friend  was 
dead,  and  even  now,  although  your  letter  has  destroyed 
all  hope,  I  can  but  feel  that  I  shall  meet  him  soon. 

God  bless  the  being  who  paid  that  lovely  tribute  to 
our  dear  one  !  But  while  I  bless,  I  envy  him  the  sacred 
duty  he  was  privileged  to  perform.  I  can  but  feel  that, 
after  his  family,  mine  was  the  right  to  first  pay  hom- 
age to  the  noble  dead.  That  will  ever  be  to  me  a 
holy  spot  where  Richard  lies,  and  I  shall  always  con- 
sider it  to  be  one  of  my  first  and  most  sacred  duties  to 
visit  it. 

That  our  friendship  was  so  well  appreciated  by  his  fam- 
ily, and  your  assurance  that  this  friendship  was  a  source 
of  happiness  to  him,  are,  and  ever  will  be,  as  a  glimpse  of 
heaven  in  the  dark  void  his  untimely  death  has  caused. 
But,  above  all,  the  sad,  sweet  relic  he  has  left  me  —  the 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS 


139 


letter  signed  with  his  death — will  forever  be  to  me  a 
source  of  consolation.  It  will  keep  forever  fresh  the 
truth  of  him  who  thought  of  his  friend  even  on  the  field 
of  battle. 

Richard  was  always  in  my  eyes  the  noblest  of  men, 
and  his  conduct  in  the  face  of  death  proves  that  I  was 
right  in  my  judgment  of  him.  He  was  a  hero  born ;  he 
acted  as  Richard  Gary  only  could  act — nobly,  unselfishly, 
bravely.  I  knew  it  would  be  so ;  I  knew  that  he  would 
be  loved  by  all  about  him ;  and  I  knew  that  if  he  fell,  he 
would  be  found  contented,  grand  in  death.  I  can  appre- 
ciate the  feelings  of  him  who  felt  like  kissing  him.  God, 
in  taking  him,  left  for  the  consolation  of  his  friends  the 
impress  of  his  soul  upon  his  face.  This  is  why  it  looked 
so  lovely,  so  like  an  angel's. 

His  dear  mother,  so  heroic  in  her  grief,  must  feel  her 
sorrow  somewhat  assuaged  by  the  conviction  that  her 
darling  is  where  she  will  meet  him  again  ;  for  never  did  a 
purer  soul  go  more  calmly  forth  at  its  master's  call. 

From  your  allusion  to  the  fight  at  Winchester,  and  the 
shell  bursting  near  Richard,  I  fear  a  letter  has  missed  us, 
for  we  heard  nothing  of  it.  .  .  .1  will  now  close,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Felton,  with  no  apology  for  this,  knowing  that 
you  appreciate  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  my  feelings, 
however  homely  they  are  expressed. 

I  need  not  say  how  anxious  I  am  to  receive  dear  Rich- 
ard's letter.    .    .    . 

With  dearest  love  for  you  all,  in  which  my  wife  joins 
me,  believe  me  ever  your  friend  and  servant,  and  your 
brother's  lover, 

Edwin  Booth. 


140  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO    CAIT.  ADAM    BADEAU. 

New  York,  Sept.  14,  1862. 
Dear  An.: 

I  'vc  been  on  the  point  of  writing  to  you  every  day, 
and  have  put  it  off  for  the  lack  of  something  to  write 
about — you  can  understand  that  sort  of  thing.  I  stay  in- 
doors all  day ;  news  is  stale  and  scarce  (I  mean  new  news, 
of  course),  and  the  consequence  is,  I  have  nought  to  say 
but  to  offer  up  my  prayers  for  your  safety  and  success.  I 
presume  you  are  at  Memphis,  as  I  see  Sherman  is  there; 
but  I  will  send,  as  you  directed,  to  New  Orleans.  To 
talk  about  such  old-time  nonsense  as  my  own  affairs  is 
now  too  trivial.  "  The  time  and  your  intents  are  savage, 
wild,"  and  admit  of  nothing  which  does  not  smack  of  seri- 
ousness; therefore,  I  must  devote  what  few  words  I  have, 
as  I  said  before,  to  you  and  your  holy  cause.  May  the 
God  of  Battles  guard  you.  Ad.,  and  may  you  persevere  in 
the  good  work  so  well  begun.  .  .  .  'T  is  said  the  enemy 
is  retreating.  God  grant  it  may  be  so,  and  that  they 
may  be  squelched  by  "  Little  Mac."  ...  I  have  seen 
no  one  as  yet  except  the  Stoddards.  .  .  .  Folks  are 
coming  to  town,  however ;  but  still  the  place  is  very 
dull.     T  is  not  the  same  New  York  I  left,  is  it  ? 

Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  and  as  often  as  possible, 
and  by  that  time  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a  longer  and, 
I  hope,  a  more  interesting  letter. 

MoUie  and  the  baby  are  well  and  happy ;  send  love  to 
you,  and  beg  you  to  come  back  safe. 

Write  me  long  letters,  and  tell  me  all  the  war  news. 

With  prayers  for  your  safety,  and  sincerest  wishes  for 
your  promotion  and  success  in  every  undertaking. 
Believe  me,  thine  as  ever, 

Ned. 

To  Capt.  A.  Badeau,  U.  S.  A. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  14I 

Dorchester,  Mass.,  March  3,  1863. 
My  dear  Ad.: 

By  the  time  this  reaches  you,  you  will  perhaps  have 
heard  of  the  terrible  blow  I  have  received  —  a  blow  which 
renders  life  aimless,  hopeless,  darker  than  it  was  before 
I  caught  the  glimpse  of  heaven  in  true  devotion  of  her, 
the  sweetest  being  that  made  man's  home  a  something 
to  be  loved.  My  heart  is  crushed,  dryed  up,  and  deso- 
late. I  have  no  ambition  now,  no  one  to  please,  no  one  to 
cheer  me.  .  .  ,  You  can  feel  my  agony,  I  know,  and  if, 
while  I  was  happy,  I  failed  to  keep  you  advised  of  my 
whereabouts  and  doings,  you  see  I  think  of  you  in  my 
misery,  and  seek  to  pour  out  my  flood  of  grief  where  I 
know  it  will  not  be  despised.  I  should  not  complain  even 
in  my  gulf  of  woe,  for  surely  God  is  just,  is  good,  is  wiser 
than  we,  and  nothing  has  ever  so  impressed  me  with  the 
truth  of  this  as  Mollie's  death.  I  left  her  in  bloom  of 
health  and  hope,  joyful  and  loving,  throwing  kisses  to  me 
as  I  parted  from  her;  two  little  tiny  weeks  slipped  by, 
and  I  was  summoned  to  her  bedside.  I  came  too  late : 
the  baby-wife  lay  dead,  after  one  week's  illness  !  Can 
you  believe  it,  Ad.?  I  can't.  I  think  she  is  somewhere 
near  me  now ;  I  see  her,  feel  her,  hear  her,  every  minute 
of  the  day.  I  call  her,  look  for  her,  every  time  the  door 
opens ;  in  every  car  that  passes  our  little  cottage  door, 
where  we  anticipated  so  much  joy,  I  expect  to  sec  the 
loved  form  of  her  who  was  my  zvorld.  God  only  can  re- 
lieve me ;  nothing  on  earth  can  fill  the  place  of  her  who 
was  to  me  at  once  wife,  mother,  sister,  child,  guide,  and 
savior.  All  is  dark;  I  know  not  where  to  turn,  how 
to  direct  the  deserted  vessel  now.  My  child  can  never 
fill  her  place,  for  she  was  my  child,  my  baby-wife.  Every 
little  toy  of  hers,  every  little  scrap  of  paper  the  most 
worthless,  arc  full  of  her  because  she  has  touched  them. 


1.J2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

They  recall  her  more  vividly  than  the  baby  does,  al- 
thoui;h  the  dear  little  thing  is  full  of  "  papa."  She  climbs 
my  knee,  and  prattles  all  day  long  to  me ;  but  still  she  is 
not  tile  baby  I  have  loved  and  cherished  so  devotedly. 
Two  little  tiny  years,  Ad.,  and  the  bright  future  is  a 
black  and  dismal  past.  O  God  !  if  I  could  only  feel  sat- 
isfietl  that  she  is  with  the  blessed,  if  she  could  give  me 
some  sign  that  this  is  not  the  end  of  all  —  then  I  could, 
with  the  hope  of  meeting  her  again,  be,  if  not  happy,  at 
least  composed ;  but  a  terrible  nightmare,  doubt,  will 
thrust  itself  between  me  and  heaven,  and  my  mind  is  on 
the  rack.  They  tell  me  that  time  and  use  will  soften  the 
blow,  that  I  shall  grow  to  forget  her.  God  forbid  !  My 
grief,  keen  as  it  is,  and  crushing,  is  still  sweet  to  me ;  for 
it  is  a  part  of  her.  Were  I  to  live  a  thousand  years,  I  'd 
ask  no  greater  blessing  than  to  mourn  for  her,  to  be 
wrapped  up  in  my  grief  as  in  a  shroud,  alone  with  her. 
You  know  more  of  our  loves  and  lives  than  any  one,  and 
yet  you  cannot  conceive  the  half;  no  one  can.  God,  she, 
and  I  only,  knew  the  depth  of  our  devotion.  It  grew 
from  childhood ;  for  I  go  back  now,  for  the  thousandth 
time,  to  the  very  first  hour  I  ever  met  her,  and  feel  that 
I  loved  her  then,  although  I  did  not  know  it.  As  she 
grew  to  womanhood,  and  loved,  my  soul  grew  to  hers. 
Poor  worm  !  I  feel  now  how  mean,  how  thoroughly  no- 
thing, I  am.  Where  can  I  go  to  forget  my  lost  joy? 
What  can  I  do  or  look  upon  that  will  not  remind  me  of 
her  ?  All  things  I  loved  or  admired  she  took  delight  in ; 
my  acting  was  studied  to  please  her,  and  after  I  left  the 
theatre,  and  we  were  alone,  her  advice  was  all  I  asked, 
all  I  valued.  If  she  was  pleased,  I  was  satisfied ;  if  not, 
I  felt  a  spur  to  prick  me  on  to  attain  the  point.  In  this 
once  happy  house  I  see  on  every  hand  bitter  remem- 
brances of  her :  the  very  pen  I  hold  was  in  her  hand  only 
three  weeks  ago,  inditing  loving  words  to  me;    the  pa- 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 43 

per  on  which  I  write  was  purchased  by  her  for  my  use ; 
her  books  lie  all  about  me ;  her  sewing,  her  dresses — all 
are  a  part  of  her,  and  every  corner  brings  her  back ;  for 
all  loved  her,  and  all  weep  for  her,  all  talk  of  her.  I  lie 
awake  at  night,  and  look  for  her  in  the  darkness ;  I  hold 
my  breath  and  listen,  and  sometimes  fancy  I  can  feel  her 
speak  away  in  somewhere — in  my  soul,  perhaps,  for  I 
know  if  it  is  possible  for  spirits  to  come  back  she  '11  come 
to  me  some  night.  Surely  she  is  an  angel  in  God's  highest 
court,  if  there  is  a  world  beyond  this,  if  this  is  not  the  end. 
On  the  day  of  the  funeral  I  received  word  from  Dr. 
Osgood,  who  was  on  a  visit  here,  offering  to  officiate. 
Strange  coincidence  would  it  not  have  been?  It  was  too 
late,  however;  but  Dr.  Huntington  performed  the  ser- 
vices. To-day  I  had  a  beautiful  letter  from  Osgood, 
written,  he  says,  in  the  very  room  in  which  he  married 
us.  I  had  also  a  kind  letter  from  Beecher^  the  other  day. 
I  never  met  him;  but  Mollie  dined  at  Mrs.  Howes'^  once, 
some  six  weeks  ago,  and  he  was  there.  Like  all  who 
came  within  her  atmosphere,  he  loved  her,  and  says  her 
name  is  no  stranger  in  his  household ;  that  daily  and 
nightly  he  prays  for  me.  From  sev^eral  other  visitors  and 
men  of  standing  I  have  received  kind  words  of  consola- 
tion and  advice ;  but  what  can  they  tell  me  ?  She  is  in 
heaven,  and  I  must  live  to  meet  her  there.  I  know  all 
this  at  least  as  well  as  they  know  it ;  I  do  not  need  their 
advice  or  sympathy,  although  it  is  good  in  them  to  give 
it,  and  I  appreciate  it ;  but  I  do  need  some  sign  from  her, 
some  little  breath  of  wind,  nothing  more,  whispering  com- 
fortable words  of  her.  Did  n't  you  tell  me  once  that  you 
saw  me  standing  near  you  when  I  was  in  reality  far  away? 
I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  to  me  two  nights  before 
Mary  left  me.  I  was  in  New  York,  in  bed  ;  it  was  about 
two  in  the  morning.      I  was  awake  ;   I  felt  a  strange  puff 

I  The  late  Henry  Ward  lieechcr.  "  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe. 


•44 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


of  air  strike  my  right  check  twice;  it  startled  me  so  that 
I  w.is  thoroughly  aroused.      I  turned  in  bed,  when  I  felt 
the  same  on  the   left  cheek  —  two  puffs  of  wind — ghost- 
kisses.    I  lay  awake  wondering  what  it  could  mean,  when 
I  distinctly  heard  these  words,  "  Come  to  me,  darling ;  I 
am  almost  frozen,''  as  plainly  as  I  hear  this  pen  scratch- 
ing over  the  paper.     It  made  a  strange  impression  on  me, 
the  voice  was  so  sad  and  imploring.     When  I  was  in  the 
cars  on  my  way  hither,  little  dreaming  that  she  was  so 
seriously  ill,  I  saw,  every  time  I  looked  from  the  car  win- 
dow, Mary  dead,  with  a  white  cloth  tied  around  her  head 
and  chin.      I  did  not  find  her  so  exactly,  nor  in  the  posi- 
tion  I  saw  her  from  the  window,  but  I  saw  her  as  dis- 
tinctly a  dozen  times  at  least  as  I  saw  her  when  I  arrived 
— dead,  and   in   her   coffin.      What  does  all  this  mean  ? 
My  mother  says  she  saw  my  father  standing  by  her  bed- 
side twice  during  the  first  month  of  his  decease ;  she  de- 
clared she  was   awake,   and  saw  him ;  but  he  vanished 
before  she  had  time  to  speak  to  him.     I,  who  have  ever 
laughed  at  such  things,  now  feel  mystified,  and  half  be- 
lieve that  such  things  may  be.      Surely  they  can  do  no 
harm ;   for  if  Mary  should  come  to  me,  I  feel  that  my 
soul  would  become  purified.      I   should  no  longer  have 
doubt,  and  my  life  would  be  sweeter,  perhaps,  than  while 
she  lived  ;  for  I  should  then  follow  the  path  I  knew  would 
lead  me  to  her.   But  then,  again,  I  fear.   Should  she  tell  me 
she  was  unhappy,  what  would  be  my  life  then  ?    I  should 
go  mad,  undoubtedly,    or   rebel,    as   Lucifer  did,   as  my 
wicked  soul  is  apt  to  do  rather  than  be  humbled.     The 
chief  reason  why  I  have  not  written  to  you  is  that  I  did 
not  wish  to  trouble  you  at  such  times  as  these  with  af- 
fairs so  trivial  as  those  relating  to  my  profession,  and  you 
know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  that  topic  is  my  only 
one.     Laziness,  I  must  confess,  in  a  great  degree  had  to 
do  with  it  also.      Nothing  more. 


I 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS 


145 


Dear  MoIIie  sat  down  to  write  to  you  one  day,  but  tore 
up  the  letter,  saying  it  could  not  interest  you,  and  that 
she  'd  write  some  other  time.  This  was  but  a  few  weeks  be- 
fore she  went  away.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  your 
whereabouts,  so  shall  send  this  to  the  care  of  Mrs.  Bus- 
teed,  who  has  doubtless  told  you  all  about  this  sadness. 
Is  there  anything  of  Mollie's  that  would  please  you  to 
have  ?  Her  (your)  guitar  is  hanging  on  the  wall,  mute  and 
tuneless  now.  The  spring  is  upon  us,  yet  the  ground  is 
white  with  snow  —  white  as  a  shroud.  Poor  Mollie  is  lying 
out  at  Mount  Auburn,  cold  and  lonely.  Does  n't  it  seem 
hard  that  one  so  young,  so  full  of  life,  devotion,  and  good- 
ness, should  go  so  suddenly  ?  Would  to  God  I  were  there 
with  her  !  But  I  suppose  that  's  wrong ;  I  suppose  I  will 
be  there  shortly.  Years  are  but  minutes  when  we  look 
back  on  vanished  joys ;  but  oh,  how  tedious  they  appear 
when  we  turn  our  eyes  the  other  way !  Every  day  now 
seems  endless ;  the  night  seems  lengthened  into  a  cen- 
tury :  I  am  in  such  haste  to  reach  that  beginning,  or  that 
end  of  all,  that  I  am  chafed  and  breathless  with  my  own 
impatience.  Ad.,  my  married  life  has  yet  some  touches 
of  the  real  in  it,  has  it  not  ?  Do  you  think  now  it  is  pos- 
sible for  me  to  recite  some  passages  in  a  play  without  a 
something  in  my  heart  and  throat  ?  God  help  me  !  Mad- 
ness would  be  a  relief  to  me,  and  I  have  often  thought  I 
stood  very  near  the  brink  of  it.  .  .  .  Total  darkness 
even  is  better  than  the  lurid  light  burning  in  the  tomb, 
and  that  is  all  that  I  can  sec.  It  flickers  before  my  eyes, 
and  shows  me  only  the  murky,  joyless  future,  and  the  faded 
brightness  of  the  dead  past.  God  bless  you,  Ad.!  Be 
brave  and  struggle,  but  set  not  your  heart  on  anything  in 
this  world.  If  good  comes  to  you,  take  it,  and  enjoy  it ; 
but  be  ready  always  to  relinquish  it  without  a  groan. 
Adieu  ;  may  we  meet  again. 

Ned. 


146 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


TO    MISS    KMMA    F.   GARY.' 


DORCIIKSTER,  Mass.,  March  5,  1863. 

My  dk ar  Miss  Gary  : 

I  sluniKl  have  acknowledged  the  receipt  of,  and  thank 
you  lor.  llie  [)ictiires,  which  are  indeed  the  most  precious, 
and  which,  Richard's  particularly,  I  think  the  best  I  have 
seen  of  our  dear  lost  ones,  had  I  not  thought  I  should  be 
able  to  do  so  in  person.  Next  week,  God  willing,  I  shall 
certainly  call. 

Poor  little  Edwina  cannot  respond  to  the  more  enlight- 
ened Georgie ;-  she  cannot  yet  command  her  English 
well  enough ;  but  she  sends  through  papa  a  thousand 
kisses  to  her  sweet  little  baby  friend,  and  shall  soon  see 
her.  Tell  Georgie  she  must  love  me,  and  talk  to  me 
when   I  come,  dear  little  soul. 

I  go  to  town  to-day  to  look  over  the  French  costumes 
I  sent  here  for  my  dear  wife's  inspection.  Were  it  not 
that  they  require  unpacking  and  attending  to,  I  'd  drive 
out  to  Cambridge;  but  I  must  defer  my  visit  till  next 
week. 

How  sad  it  is  to  perform  these  offices  !  I  purchased 
these  costumes  merely  to  please  her,  and  I  am  sure  when 
I  see  them  for  the  first  time  I  shall  lose  my  self-control, 
as  I  did,  after  calmness  had  settled  on  my  heart,  when 
packing  away  her  dresses  and  other  articles  that  now 
are  so  very,  very  dear  to  me,  albeit  of  the  most  trivial 
character. 

But  I  must  close,  with  good  night,  and  with  my  love 
to  you  all,  and  kisses  to  Georgie. 

Ever  your  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 

1  Miss  Emma  F.  Gary,  sister  of  Mrs.  Louis  Agassiz,  widow  of  the  late  Profes- 
sor Ixjuis  Agassiz  of  Cambridge,  Mass. 

2  Miss  Georgie  Gary,  only  child  of  Gaptain  Richard  F.  Gary. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  1 47 

TO    ADAM    BADEAU. 

New  York,  107  East  17th  St.,  May  18,  1863. 
Dear  Ad.: 

I  got  your  letter  before  I  left  Boston  some  weeks 
ago.  You  see  I  am  now  located  in  New  York.  I  have 
taken  Putnam's  house  (the  publisher)  furnished,  for  six 
months,  during  which  time  I  shall  busy  myself  looking 
for  a  permanent  home  while  on  earth  —  something  I  can 
leave  my  child  in  case  of  my  departing,  which  God  grant 
may  not  occur  until  I  have  become  worthy  of  being 
reunited  with  her.  .  .  .  While  Mary  was  here  I  was 
shut  up  in  her  devotion.  I  never  dreamed  that  she  could 
be  taken  from  me.  .  .  .  As  I  ever  have  lived,  so  live  I 
now,  within.  You  would  not  think  I  suffer  were  you  here 
with  me  ;  nor  would  I  have  you  think  that  I  do  suffer  con- 
stantly :  it  is  only  at  times,  as  now.  When  I  wrote  you 
last,  it  seems  I  was  hopeful  and  patient ;  now  I  am  torn 
with  all  sorts  of  hateful  fancies  ;  yet  but  an  hour  ago  I 
might  have  written  you  a  far  different  letter.  Believe  in 
one  great  truth.  Ad. — God  is.  And  as  surely  as  you 
and  I  are  flesh  and  bones  and  blood,  so  are  we  also  spirits 
eternal.  I  believe  it  beyond  a  doubt,  and  I  believe,  too, 
that  she  who  sat  beside  me  only  a  few  weeks  ago  is  living 
and  is  near  me  now.  This  should  make  me  happy,  should 
it  not?  But  it  does  not.  .  .  .  Ad.,  I  never  knew  how 
much  I  loved  her.  I  do  not  perhaps  fully  realize  it  yet; 
if  I  did,  the  loss  of  my  Aidenn  might  kill  me.  God  is 
wise  and  just  and  good  in  this,  as  in  all  things.  ...  I 
tell  you.  Ad.,  it  is  not  well  to  forget  God  in  our  pro.sper- 
ity ;  wc  do  not  when  we  are  sinking.  Infidels,  heathens, 
blasphemers,  all  think  of  Him  then.  .  .  .  My  feelings 
arc  as  my  words,  jumbled  together  in  terrible  confusion. 
Let  us  pass.    .    .    . 


I.|S  EDWIN    HOOTH 

I  am  writiiiL;  on  Washington  Irving's  table — an  honor, 
I  prcsunu',  but  it  is  very  small  and  inconvenient  for  the 
purpose,  and  1  'd  rather  have  more  elbow-play,  were  it 
even  on  a  kitchen  dresser.  My  baby — bless  her!  —  is  as 
beautiful  and  as  full  of  love  and  life  as  she  who  was  born 
this  night.  Ves  ;  this  is,  or  shortly  will  be,  the  nineteenth, 
Mary's  twenty-third  year  !      Poor  baby  !    .    .    . 

Tell  me  all  about  the  war;  every  time  you  write,  en- 
lighten me  as  to  what  is  going  on  in  this  world  of  ours. 
...  In  the  world  where  cruel  fate  has  cast  me  —  in  the 
theatre  —  I  am  as  a  child  whose  eye-teeth  are  yet  uncut. 
...  In  the  way  of  art,  sculpture  is  flourishing,  painting 
also :  of  the  former  I  speak  selfishly,  as  I  ever  think  and 
speak  of  all  things.  [Launt]  Thompson  is  doing  a  head 
of  me  as  Hamlet,  which  will  surpass  his  "Trapper,"  and 
that  is  worthy  of  Michelangelo.  I'd  bury  it  if  I  were 
he,  and  rot  it  as  Buonarotti  did  (you  see  I  still  retain  my 
wit !),  and  swear  it  to  be  antique.  Palmer  and,  in  fact, 
all  artists  pronounce  it  great.  .  .  .  Good  night,  and  be 
your  dreams  brighter  than  mine. 

Cats  are  yowling  and  dogs  are  howling  under  my  win- 
dow, and  it  is  very  late ;  so  I  must  go  to  bed  and  think. 
I  've  not  seen  the  B.'s  yet,  for  Thompson  has  all  my  time 
from  "get  up  "  to  "go  to  bed."  Shall  see  them  soon  if  in 
town.  Write  cheerfully  and  at  length  ;  I  need  it.  God 
bless  you,  boy  !  Ned. 

New  York,  107  East  17th  St.,  June  6,  1863. 

Mv  DEAR  Ad.: 

The  sad  intelligence  of  your  wound  reached  me  through 
the  "  Herald  "  this  morning,  and  I  shall  endeavor  to  give 
you  a  cheerful  letter,  sincerely  hoping  that  you  will  be  up 
and  out  by  the  time  it  reaches  you.  A  cheerful  letter — 
Great   God!    where  shall   I  find   the   material  for  such? 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  1 49 

Truly  not  in  my  heart;  not  in  anything  the  world  pre- 
sents to  me  now.  I  can  but  write  as  the  mood  is.  But 
I  must  take  care  and  not  pain  you.  Let  what  I  may  say, 
if  I  get  very  sad,  be  taken  seriously,  not  sorrowfully.  We 
may  never  meet  again  ;  you  may  even  now  be  quitting 
earth  for  the  bright  home  I  have  longed  for  all  my  life, 
but  from  which  I  have  always  turned.  I  sometimes,  as 
in  my  first  letter  to  you  (you  say  you  got  no  other,  yet  I 
wrote  two),  believe  beyond  a  doubt  of  her  existence  and 
her  constant  love ;  but  then  again,  as  in  my  second  letter, 
I  feel  the  deadness  of  an  outcast  soul.  Ad.,  if  you  do  go 
(don't  think  I  speak  lightly  of  so  serious  a  matter ;  no,  I 
always  thought  of  death  as  coolly  as  sleep,  nothing  more, 
and  gladly  would  I  take  that  sleep  were  I  permitted)  — 
if  you  go,  come  back  to  Die,  and  assure  me  of  the  reality 
of  what  perplexes  us  all  so  often.  None  need  the  con- 
viction more  than  I.  If  I  were  sure  of  it  in  her  case  I  'd 
be  happy — but  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  I  've  been  to  see 
Miss  Edmunds  (the  Judge's  daughter),  and  some  marvel- 
ous things  have  been  said  and  done.  I  have  received 
communications  from  Mary  and  my  father  almost  con- 
vincing, but  I  want  something  beyond  a  doubt.  .  .  . 
I  shall  investigate  thoroughly  the  subject  which  is  of 
so  vital  importance  to  me,  and  I  know  how  fearful  my 
friends  get  in  such  matters ;  so  keep  it  to  your  heart,  and 
if  you  remain  on  earth  I  '11  acquaint  you  with  my  pro- 
ceedings; if  you  go  to  her  and  can  come  back,  do  so:  I 
will,  to  you.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  keeping  away  from 
102,  but  you  know  how  I  dislike  to  visit,  and  you  may 
judge  how  painful  it  would  now  be  to  see  those  who  knew 
her :  we  can  only  talk  of  her,  and  though  I  sometimes 
fancy  I  can  do  so  calmly,  as  though  she  were  still  here,  I 
find  my  heart  swelling  up  into  my  throat  when  I  think 
of  going ;  so  I  put  it  oft"  from  day  to  day.  Now,  I  must 
go.      Oh,  if  I  could  get  rid  of  that  impatient  longing  f^r 


^S'^ 


KDWIN    BOOTH 


her  return  !      I  said    I  \\  be  cheerful,  did  n't  I  ?     I  have 
taken   a  pretty  course,  truly  !    .    .    . 

I  pra)-  Ciod  you  may  not  be  taken  away,  for  the  world 
is  still  beautiful  to  you  ;  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  that 
you  may  not  be  prevented  from  going  again  into  action, 
and  that  you  may  win  renown  and  happiness.  I  feel  my 
iluty  now  to  be  simply  the  accumulation  of  money  to 
leave  my  child,  for  I  may  go  as  suddenly  as  its  poor 
mother  did.    .    .    . 

You  ask  if  you  offended  me  in  your  first  letter.  No ;  I 
wrote  you  as  soon  as  I  could  after  I  received  it :  nothing 
can  offend  me  now.  .  .  .  By  the  time  this  reaches 
you  I  shall  be  by  Mollie's  grave.  I  go  there  to  place  a 
tablet  over  her ;  when  that  is  done  I  shall  go  back  to  her 
baby  and  —  God  knows  what. 

Be  hopeful,  cheerful,  Ad.:  don't  let  my  feelings  over- 
master yours.  You  must  be  quiet  and  cheerful.  I  am 
in  a  dead  state  to-day.  Sometimes  I  am  of  the  other 
world,  and  fee/  there  is  a  path  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grave.  For  fear  I  grow  worse  and  worse,  and  pain  you 
more  than  I  have  already  done,  I  '11  close.  I  send  you 
cold  comfort,  I  know.      God  bless  you  and  restore  you  ! 

Write  me  often,  and  as  soon  as  you  get  up.  I  '11  see 
the  B.'s  to-morrow,  if  I  'm  home. 

Be  hopeful  and  happy. 

Thine,  Edwin. 

New  York,  107  East  17th  St.,  June  15,  1863. 
Mv  DEAR  Ad.  : 

I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  be  in  the  proper  mood  to  cheer 
you.  I  got  your  letter  to-day,  and  must  answer  it  ere  I 
go  to  bed,  for  I  may  be  off  for  Boston  to-morrow.  I  go 
there  on  a  sad,  painful  errand.  You  must  take  what  I  send, 
and  count  it  sympathy,  gloomy  and  cheerless  as  it  may 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS 


151 


prove  to  be.  Yes,  I  remember  the  promise  she  made  you, 
and  I  do  not  doubt  she  is  near  you  at  times — when  you 
are  cheerful.  I  feel  her  by  me  sometimes — at  least  I 
fancy  so,  but  to-day  has  been  one  of  my  bad  days. 
The  dear  little  baby  is  beautiful,  and  as  full  of  life  as 
her  mother  was.   .   .   . 

I  'm  glad  you  write  so  cheerfully.  I  know  you  feel  sadly 
on  my  account;  hopeful,  I  trust,  on  your  own,  and  I  truly 
hope  my  dullness  may  not  add  to  your  sufferings.  For- 
give me ;  I'm  so  selfish  still  that  others'  woes  seem  no- 
thing to  mine,  and  yet  I  struggle  to  be  patient  and  cheer- 
ful too.  Get  well  and  come  home,  or,  rather,  come  home 
and  get  well.  I  '11  be  with  you  as  much  as  I  possibly 
can. 

You  must  be  suffering  in  the  heat  of  New  Orleans.  I  've 
been  there  in  the  hot  winters.  Lord  knows  what  it  is  now 
in  its  broiling  sun. 

I  told  you  in  my  last  I  had  been  to  see  Miss  Ed- 
munds :  well,  the  result  of  my  four  or  five  visits  is  not 
satisfactory;  of  course  nothing  1  can  get  on  earth  can  be; 
but  surely  there  is  something  marvelous  in  this  mysteri- 
ous business.  My  father  and  Mary  have  both  been  with 
me  there,  and  have  written  and  spoken  with  me  through 

Miss  E in  a  curious  manner;    but  we  cannot  help 

our  doubts,  you  know,  reasonable  as  it  seems.  It  docs 
seem  reasonable  to  me,  whatever  others  may  say  or  think 
of  it.  I  won't  believe  for  the  millionth  part  of  a  minute 
that  Mary's  deep  love  for  me  is  buried  in  her  grave ; 
and  living  and  loving  still,  why  should  she  not  seek  me 
even  yet?  Of  course  the  only  "if"  in  the  matter  is  God's 
permission,  and  in  order  to  save  mankind,  I  do  not  think 
he  would  forbid  it.  So  I  shall  dream  on,  believing  she 
is  near  me ;  hoping  that  one  day  I  may  receive  direct  in- 
telligence from  her,  until  I  am  cither  convinced,  mad,  or 
disgusted.     The  first  of  these  three  results  will  save  me  ; 


15-^ 


KDWIN    BOOTH 


the  sccoiul  will  be  of  little  moment  one  way  or  another; 
the  last  will  end  me. 

I  do  not  envy  you  in  battle,  if  you  feel  no  better  than  I 
do  in  Kii/iani,  for  by  the  time  the  war  breaks  out  on  Bos- 
worth's  iMeld  I  feel  siek  at  the  stomach.  If  it  was  not  for 
the  fear  of  doing  my  country  more  harm  than  good,  1  'd 
be  a  soldier,  too;  a  coward  always  has  an  "if"  to  slink 
behind,  you  know.  Those  cursed  bullets  are  awkward 
things,  and  very  uncivil  at  times,  too  ;  and  as  for  a  bayonet 
charge,  I  don't  hesitate  to  avow  my  readiness  to  "  scoot " 
if  there  is  a  chance.  I  'd  be  cashiered  or  "  broke  "  in  two 
after  the  first  day's  roll-call.  Bull  Run  would  be  nothing 
to  the  run  I  'd  make  of  it.  Cold  steel  and  my  warm 
blood  don't  mingle  well  :  I  don't  mind  bullets  so  much  if 
they  come  unawares  and  don't  hurt ;  if  they  'd  always  kill 
quick  I  might  buckle  up  to  'em,  but  I  guess  "  things  is 
better  as  they  is "  for  all  sides.   .  .  . 

Keep  a  stout  heart,  my  boy.  You  see  how  valiant  I  am, 
so  far  away  from  danger,  too.  I  have  no  idea  what  month 
will  thrust  me  forth  into  the  hateful  life  again  —  September, 
I  suppose ;  till  then  I  hope  to  have  a  quiet  time  in  my 
gra\-e.  Adieu.  Be  a  good  boy,  and  come  back  jolly.  I 
guess  you  're  rough  enough  :  you  've  done  something 
now,  and  can  kick  the  cur  that  snaps.  I  '11  be  careful  and 
cautious,  as  your  state  deserves. 

I  must  say  good  night.  It  is  late,  and  I  've  got  a  sick- 
headache.  God  bless  and  prosper  you  !  I  '11  see  the 
B.'s  to-morrow  if  I  live.  My  baby  will  be  like  Mary. 
God  grant  I  may  live,  for  her  sake  ! 

I  've  bought  a  house  in  Nineteenth  Street,  but  shall 
not  move  into  it  before  the  fall. 

Good  night.     Ever  thine, 

Ned. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 53 

TO    MISS   EMMA   F.    GARY. 

June  17. 
Dear  friend: 

The  package  you  sent  reached  me  in  safety.  So  pre- 
cious, so  dear  to  me,  are  the  locket  and  my  darling's  letters 
that  I  shall  ever  cherish  them ;  even  my  own  have  now 
an  interest  since  they  were  regarded  worthy  of  being 
kept  by  her.  It  was  so  good  in  you  to  send  them. 
I  am  happy  that  you  retain  the  letters  you  refer  to ; 
even  that  may  serve  to  keep  unburied  a  past  so  dear  to 
all  of  us. 

It  is  a  very  great  consolation  for  me  to  know  that  my 
poor  words  of  sympathy  have  been  of  the  slightest  service 
to  your  dear,  good  mother.      God  bless  her ! 

My  little  angel  daughter  is  in  most  excellent  health  and 
spirits ;  she  grows  more  and  more  beautiful  every  day. 
She  often  speaks  of  Georgie,  and  asks  to  kiss  her  picture, 
which  remains  just  as  Mary  placed  it  in  its  frame.  All  the 
big  dolls  are  called  Georgie  ;  some  of  them  Gary — the 
lesser  ones. 

I  have  a  great  deal  of  studying  to  do  for  the  ne.xt  reg- 
ular season  (my  first  as  part  proprietor  of  the  Winter 
Garden),  and  shall  consequently  be  kept  in  the  city  all 
the  summer,  unless  I  find  it  affects  the  baby's  health,  and 
then,  of  course,  I  shall  take  her  into  the  country  some- 
where. 

My  eldest  brother,  Junius,  whom  perhaps  your  brother 
may  have  known  in  California,  has  returned  after  an  ab- 
sence of  two  years.  My  brother  W is  here  for  the  sum- 
mer, and  we  intend  taking  advantage  of  our  thus  being 
brought  together,  with  nothing  to  do,  and  will,  in  the 
course  of  a  week  or  two,  give  a  performance  of  "Julius 
Caisar " — in  which   T   shall   undertake    Ihiitus   instead  of 


I  54  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Ctissius  —  for  the  benefit  of  the  statue  we  wish  to  erect  in 
Central  Park.' 

This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  of  myself;  but  of  the  baby  I 
could  write  volumes  had  I  the  words  to  describe  her 
beauty,  her  goodness,  her  affection.  Full  of  her  sweet 
mother's  soul,  she  brings  Mary  back  to  earth  ;  her  eyes, 
voice,  manner,  her  ringing  laugh,  and  her  joyous  fun,  bear 
mc  backward  in  pleasurable  pain  to  the  days  when  I  first 
knew  her  mother.  God  bless  my  little  Georgie  !  I  hope 
she  is  improving  in  every  way.  I  know  she  does  ;  I  know 
that  she  is  beautiful  and  good,  and  a  blessing  to  all.  Keep 
me  in  her  memory,  and  also  let  the  older  children  hear  of 
me  sometimes.  I  am  scribbling  with  a  terrible  stick,  which 
makes  even  my  "  hieroglyphics"  more  than  usually  difficult 
to  decipher. 

Give  my  dearest  love  to  all  the  family,  and  think  of  me 
ever  as  I  am,  Your  true  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO   MISS   EMMA   F.    GARY. 

November  1 1. 
MV    DEAR    FRIEND: 

Will  you  believe  ?    I  've  not  replied  to 's  note  yet ! 

I  have  lost  the  vein  of  writing,  somehow,  as  it  is  only  now 
and  then,  when  I  feel  at  liberty  to  be  tedious  and  bore  a 
very  old  friend,  that  I  can  set  about  it. 

I  have  been  quite  ill,  as  I  told  you  in  my  last,  nor  am  I 
yet  in  a  condition  for  work  ;  but  I  must  soon  get  at  it  for  a 
long  winter  campaign.  On  Friday,  the  25th,  %vitho7it  fail, 
the  long-talked-of  benefit  "  to  Shakspere  "  will  take  place 
at  the  Winter  Garden,  with  the  "  Brothers  Booth  "  —  a  la 

1   The  statue  of  Shakspere  which  now  adorns   the  entrance  to  the  Mall  in 
Central   Park. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  I  55 

Hanlon  —  as  the  mainsprings,  and  beginning  on  the  fol- 
lowing night  Hamlet,  in  a  new  dress  (I  wish  Mr.  \V 

were   here  to  see  it),  will  fret  his  brief  hour  every  night 
until  further  notice. 

I  see  no  chance  of  acting  in  Boston  at  all ;  but  J.  B., 
my  big  brother,  will  try  a  few  weeks  at  the  Howard. 
According  to  the  papers  (I  've  not  seen  him  for  years — . 
on  the  stage,  I  mean)  he  is  the  Booth  of  the  family ;  so  I 
must  brush  up,  or  lose  my  laurels. 

Edwina  asks  —  about  daily  —  when  she  is  to  see  her 
little  "  sister  "  Georgie.  This  is  an  idea  of  her  own,  en- 
tirely, and  she  kisses  her  picture  whenever  she  catches 
sight  of  it  on  the  mantel  —  framed  just  as  dear  Mary  left 
it.  ...  I  voted  (for  Lincoln)  t'  other  day  —  the  first  vote 
I  ever  cast;  and  I  suppose  I  am  now  an  American  citizen 
all  over,  as  I  have  ever  been  in  heart. 

I  forget  whether  you  told  me  you  had  read  Doran's 
"  Annals  of  the  Stage."  There  is  a  good  account  of  Booth 
in  it,  but  a  better  one  of  Betterton  (no  pun  intended,  I 
assure  you).  He  is  my  ideal  of  an  actor,  both  on  and  off 
the  stage.  He  aimed  at  truth  in  his  art,  and  lived  it  at 
home.  I  wish  he  lived  to-day,  or  that  I  had  lived  then. 
Circumstances  more  than  genius  made  Garrick  famous, 
while  Barry  was  eclipsed  by  the  former's  tact  almost  as 
effectually  as  was  my  father's  modesty  by  Kean's  dash. 
'T  is  an  interesting  book,  I  think,  and  gives  us  a  good  idea 
of  "  their  Majesties'  Servants."  For  the  last  four  weeks 
I  've  suffered  terribly  with  headaches,  and  while  I  write  I 
feel,  as  Tennyson  says,  "  they  have  not  buried  me  deep 
enough  "  (or  words  to  that  effect ;  I  'm  a  poor  hand  at 
quoting) ;  every  little  noise  seems  to  split  my  pate  across. 

So  good  night,  with  all  my  love  and  Edwina's,  and  the 
usual  kisses  for  Georgie. 

Your  friend, 

Edwin  IJooth. 


156  KDWIN    BOOTH 

TO    MISS    EMMA    F.    GARY. 

...  I  have  just  lost  another  dear  and  noble  friend  in 
Ji)hn  Hopper,  whose  death  you  may  have  read  of  in  the 
papers.    lie  was  well  known,  and  valued  by  men  of  worth. 

Somehow  I  feel  that  Mary  is  less  lonely  there  when 
dear  friends  go  thither,  and  instead  of  grief  I  feel  a  yearn- 
ing to  follow  them.  I  believe  they  meet  and  bear  mes- 
sages to  her  from  us,  and  I  believe,  too,  that  she  comes 
to  me,  and  influences  me  in  all  that  there  is  of  good  in  me. 
Some  call  that  "  still,  small  voice  "  the  conscience,  but  I 
think  it  is  oftener  the  spirit  of  a  departed  dear  one  speak- 
ing to  us ;  it  has  been  too  well  proved  in  my  case  for  me 
to  doubt  it. 

Baby  has  just  kissed  me  before  going  out  for  a  walk, 
and  when  I  told  her  I  was  going  to  send  her  picture  to 
Georgie,  she  looked  abashed  :  she  is  very  sensitive,  and 
does  n't  like  to  be  reminded  of  her  faults  ;  she  sends  a 
thousand  kisses  with  my  love  to  you  all.  I  hope  your 
dear  mother  is  well  and  happy  —  God  bless  her ! 
Believe  me  ever 

Your  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 


to  miss  emma  f.  gary. 

Saint  Valentine's  Day. 
My  dear  friend  : 

A  little  lull  in  the  whirl  of  excitement,  in  which  my 
brain  has  nearly  lost  its  balance,  affords  me  an  opportu- 
nity to  write  you.  It  would  be  difficult  to  explain  the 
many  little  annoyances  I  have  been  subjected  to  in  the 
production  of  "  Richelieu,"  but  when  I  tell  you  that  it  far 
surpasses  "  Hamlet,"  and  exceeds   all  my  expectations. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 57 

you  may  suppose  that  I  have  not  been  very  idle  all  this 
while.      I  wish  you  could  see  it. 

Prof.  Peirce'  has  been  here,  and  he  will  tell  you  of  it. 
It  really  seems  that  the  dreams  of  my  past  life  —  so  far  as 
my  profession  is  concerned  —  are  being  realized.  What 
Mary  and  I  used  to  plan  for  my  future,  what  Richard  and 
I  used  laughingly  to  promise  ourselves  in  our  model  thea- 
tre, seems  to  be  realized  —  in  these  two  plays,  at  least. 
As  history  says  of  the  great  cardinal,  I  am  "  too  fortunate 
a  man  not  to  be  superstitious,"  and  as  I  find  my  hopes  being 
fulfilled,  I  cannot  help  but  believe  that  there  is  a  suffi- 
cient importance  in  my  art  to  interest  them  still ;  that  to 
a  higher  influence  than  the  world  believes  I  am  moved  by 
I  owe  the  success  I  have  achieved.  Assured  that  all  I 
do  in  this  advance  carries,  even  beyond  the  range  of  my 
little  world  (the  theatre),  an  elevating  and  refining  in- 
fluence, while  m  it  the  effect  is  good,  I  begin  to  feel  really 
happy  in  my  once  uneasy  sphere  of  action.  I  dare  say  I 
shall  soon  be  contented  with  my  lot.  I  will  tell  jw/  this 
much  :  I  have  been  offered  from  all  parts  of  the  country 
the  means  to  a  speedy  and  an  ample  fortune,  but  prefer 
the  limit  I  have  set,  wherein  I  have  the  power  to  carry 
out  my  wishes,  though  "  on  half  pay,"  as  it  were. 

I  was  so  hurried  this  morning  that  I  forget  to  send  by 
Prof.  Peirce  a  book  of  "  Hamlet "  to  you,  but  he  will  be 
back  in  a  week,  and  then  I  will  think  of  it.  He  is  a  mag- 
nificent man  :  as  childlike  and  gentle  as  Agassiz.  I  fear 
he  had  not  so  favorable  an  opinion  of  me,  for  I  was  un- 
able to  show  him  much  attention.  The  fact  is,  I  am  in  a 
state  of  "  crazy."  Acting  such  parts  night  after  night  is 
a  dreadful  drain  upon  the  nervous  system,  and  affords  no 


1  The  late  Professor  Peirce,  professor  of  mathematics  in  Harvard  University, 
father  of  Professor  James  Mills  Peirce,  who  has  so  ably  succced(;d  his  renowned 
father  in  the  same  branch  of  learning.  Both  gentlemen  were  old  and  valued 
friends  of  my  father. 


1  :^S  KDWIN    UOOTH 

rest  cither  to  miiul  or  body;  so  that  1  am  not  myself  at 
any  time  when  uiuler  their  influence. 

Kduiii.i  is  as  well  and  beautiful  and  bright  as  can  be, 
and  I  hope  that  darling  Georgie  is  in  the  like  condition. 
I  know  she  must  be.  I  see  little  of  my  "  bird  "  except  at 
meals,  for  I  am  seldom  in  the  house  at  other  times.  She 
is  dreadfully  opposed  to  my  acting  every  night,  and  says 
she  "  don't  want  any  bread  and  butter  "  when  I  tell  her  it 
is  to  supply  her  with  it  that  I  do  so. 

I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  in  Boston  again.  Not 
before  next  fall,  I  fancy ;  for  when  I  end  my  work  here  I 
go  to  Philadelphia,  which  will  terminate  the  season.  I 
hope  I  may  be  as  successful  in  the  management  of  the 
Boston  theatre  ;  but  I  really  fear  I  have  too  much  on  my 
hands  to  do  justice  to  all.     We  shall  see. 

Give  my  love  to  your  dear  mother  and  all  the  family, 
with  a  heart  full  of  love  and  kisses  for  Georgie. 

Ever  your  friend,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    MRS.  RICHARD    F.  GARY. 

June  3,  1864. 
MV    DEAR,  DEAR    FRIENDS  : 

You  know  my  heart ;  I  cannot  speak  to  you  of  "comfort. 

One  after  another  the  blows  have  fallen  so  heavily  that 
souls  unaided  by  God's  unfaltering  love,  and  faith  stronger 
than  death,  would  have  sunk  in  despair  beneath  their 
crushing  weight. 

But  in  your  hearts,  as  in  hers, —  dear,  dear  mother, 
for  so  she  always  seemed  to  me,  Mary's  mother, —  as  in , 
my  own,  there  is  a  light  which  sorrow  cannot  quench ; 
which  guides  us  through  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 
which  reveals  to  us  the  secret  of  His  mysterious  works — 
the  secret  love  !     Oh,  that  I  could  give  you  the  full  com- 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  1 59 

panionship  of  that  love  as  I  have  felt  it  since  Mary's 
death,  the  peace  that  has  filled  my  soul,  and  the  strength 
that  has  flowed  steadily  into  it,  since  that  terrible  day  ! 
Could  I  give  you  this  you  would  rejoice  for  her  as  I  do, 
although  my  heart  aches  for  you  while  I  write.  Oh,  be 
assured,  dear,  dear  ones,  that  they  are  together ;  that 
their  knowledge  now  is  so  great  that  even  our  grief  for 
their  departure  causes  them  no  pain,  so  well  they  know 
how  good  it  is  for  us  to  suffer. 

That  I  was  in  the  hearts  of  my  noble  Richard  and  his 
dear  sister  while  they  were  on  the  very  threshold  of 
Home,  is  a  joy  to  me  past  all  that  earth  can  give  me.  I 
know  I  shall  be  welcomed  there  by  them  :  they  never  for- 
get us,  never  cease  to  love  and  care  for  us.  When  we 
meet,  I  know  that  I  shall  wonder  how  I  could  ever  miss 
them,  so  brief  will  the  separation  then  seem.  If  /  feel 
this,  dear  friends, — I  who  am  so  much  lower  in  the  grade 
of  worthiness, —  how  joyous  must  your  hearts  be  when  you 
reflect  how  near  we  all  are  to  our  unseen  but  real  home, 
when  you  know  that  all  that  comes  from  Him  is  for  our 
good. 

Oh,  I  feel  such  an  intense  love  for  God  when  sor- 
row touches  me  that  I  could  almost  wish  my  heart  would 
always  ache — I  feel  so  near  to  him,  I  realize  his  love 
so  thoroughly,  so  intensely,  at  such  times. 

I  did  not  mean  to  write  so  much,  but  this  (my  love  I 
speak  of)  has  carried  me  away.  Several  times  I  have 
stopped  to  brush  away  the  tears  that  came  for  you,  and  to 
give  vent  to  that  sigh  which  is  a  yearning  of  the  spirit  to 
follow  its  loved  ones  home  ;  but  I  could  not  cease  to  write 
until  I  had  given  utterance  to  all  that  choked  my  heart. 

Let  this  be  for  the  dear,  good  mother  and  sisters  of  our 
dear  ones  as  for  you. 

Good-bye.     God  bless  and  comfort  you  ! 

Your  friend,  Edwin  Booth. 


lOO  EDWIN    BOOTH 

TO    MRS.    RICHARD    F.    GARY. 

July   12,   1864. 
Di:AR    FRIEiNl)  : 

I  was  absent  from  the  city  when  your  letter  came,  and 
since  receiving  it  I  have  been  waiting  for  a  chance  to 
have  baby's  picture  taken  for  you  ;  but  it  is  so  dreadfully 
warm  in  the  mornings  and  afternoons  that  I  fear  I  must 
put  it  off  for  a  little  while  :   but  you  shall  have  it. 

I  was  in  hopes,  too,  that  I  could  arrange  it  so  that  I 
might  visit  Boston ;  but  now  that  the  theatre  here  has 
come  into  my  hands,  the  two  others  doing  and  knowing 
very  little  about  the  matter,  I  'm  kept  busy  looking  after 
the  alterations  and  decorations  of  the  place.  Indeed,  the 
calculation  is  to  keep  me  employed  here  as  long  as  it  is 
possible  for  tragedy  to  be  made  available ;  and  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  weeks  at  Philadelphia  in  September,  I 
fear  I  shall  not  be  able  to  leave  the  city  at  all,  when  once 
I  fairly  begin. 

Indeed,  I  deeply  feel  your  loss  in  our  dear  friend's  ab- 
sence. She  was,  as  I  have  said,  more  like  a  mother  in 
the  good  she  did  me  ;  I  always  loved  her  as  though  she 
were  my  Mary's  own  mother.  She  was  so  good,  so  gentle, 
so  strong !  Her  faith  gave  me  strength,  and  did  more  to 
clear  from  my  heart  the  sickening  doubts  that  ivill  come 
to  us  the  very  moments  we  have  cause  to  look  above  the 
earth  —  I  mean  when  we  are  forced  to  do  so ;  and  many 
of  us  need  that  force,  that  powerful  voice  calling  to  us  in 
our  depths  of  selfishness  and  sin.  I  did,  and  nothing  but 
the  blow  which  fell  upon  me  could  have  awakened  me. 
Through  her  I  learned  to  feel  it  was  in  kindness,  not 
anger,  that  God  spoke  thus  to  me. 

God  comfort  your  dear  old  mother !  I  hope  she  is 
well  and  peaceful.  I  feel  that  I  shall  go  —  should  have 
gone  long  ago  —  to  see  her,  but,  oh,  how  hard  it  is  to 


LETTERS    TO   HIS    FRIENDS  l6l 

visit  a  place  where  sJie  is  not !  It  would  kill  me  almost 
to  visit  Dorchester,  and  yet  I  can  go  to  Mary's  grave ;  I 
keep  all  her  books  and  playthings  about  me,  and  yet  I 
could  not  go  to  the  hotel  —  except  to  that  part  of  it 
she  did  not  inhabit  —  where  we  passed  so  many  happy 
days.  How  distinctly  I  can  see  Richard  and  Mrs.  Felton — 
much  more  so  than  I  see  Mary.  Is  n't  it  strange  ?  I  see 
her,  though,  in  Edwina ;  she  is  growing  every  day  more 
and  more  like  her  mother.  You  shall  see  a  good  picture 
of  her  if  it  is  possible  to  get  one,  and  as  soon  as  I  can 
take  her  out  at  the  proper  time.  God  bless  my  little 
Georgie  !  A  thousand  kisses  from  Edwina's  papa  for  her, 
and  my  love  to  the  family. 

Believe  me  ever  your  friend, 

E.   Booth. 


TO    MRS.    RICHARD   F.    GARY. 

Phil  A.,  Sept.  i6. 
My  dear  friend: 

I  have  been  a  very  long  time  answering  Miss  Emma's 
letter ;  you  must  not  let  her  think  me  ungrateful  or  neg- 
ligent, but  let  this  serve  not  only  for  you  and  Georgie, 
but  also  as  a  remembrance  of  her.  Baby  is  my  only  com- 
panion here,  and  when  my  long  rehearsals  are  over  I 
frolic  with  her  until  the  hour  for  my  return  to  the  theatre 
at  night,  notwithstanding  it  seems  I  have  barely  time  to 
swallow  my  dinner  hastily,  and  go  to  work  —  work. 
Xevcr  since  I  began  my  theatrical  career  did  its  labors 
seem  so  truly  to  resemble  downright  bodily,  mental,  and 
spiritual  "hammer  and  tongs"  as  now.  It  's  like  build- 
ing earthworks  in  the  army,  or,  indeed,  more  like  what 
it  is  —  digging  a  grave.  I  feel  as  though  the  frame  were 
tottering  beneath  the  weight,  and  the  constant  wear  and 


iOj  EDWIN   BOOTH 

tear  that  it  is  nii;htly,  yes,  and  daily,  too,  called  upon  to 
underi;o.  Vov  the  past  year  I  have  realized  the  hateful 
truth  that  the  human,  or,  rather,  the  mortal,  part  of  me,  is 
not  equal  to  its  duties. 

1  "m  about  closing  the  second  week  of  my  engagement 
here,  which  has  been  highly  satisfactory  in  every  sense, 
prej-taratory  to  the  regular  winter  Avork  at  the  Winter 
(.larden,  and  have  about  worn  myself  out  in  the  prepa- 
ration, as  it  were. 

Well,  I  Vc  said  enough  about  myself,  and  now  a  word 
for  the  babies.  You  know  I  am  always  delighted  to  hear 
of  my  sweet  little  Georgic.  God  bless  the  darling !  Ed- 
wina,  as  I  have  told  you,  names  all  her  dolls  Georgie. 
The  other  day  a  lady  in  the  city  gave  her  a  very  pretty  one, 
and  because  she  (the  lady)  desired  her  to  call  it  by  some 
pet  name  of  her  own  choosing,  Edwina  would  n't  have  it. 
She  speaks  of  it  now,  but  calls  it  the  "  lady's  doll."  She 
shall  go  with  me  when  I  go  to  Boston,  although  there 
the  weather  will  be  very  cold,  I  fear,  as  I  may  not  get 
there  until  February.  I  am  very  anxious  that  our  babies 
shall  meet  and  love  each  other. 

A  little  ring  with  turquoises  has  filled  baby's  head 
for  the  past  week ;  she  evinces  a  great  love  for  dress  and 
gewgaws  in  preference  to  dolls  and  playthings.  Georgie 
and  Edwina  appear  to  be  of  the  same  mold  in  other 
respects:  they  are  both  wise  and  "little  old  women." 

I  hope  dear  Mrs.  Felton's  children  are  well.  In  answer 
to  a  question  in  Emma's  letter  about  Barton  Booth,  I 
do  not  know,  but  I  suspect,  from  the  fact  that  his  "  arms  " 
(over  his  grave  in  Westminster  Abbey)  being  the  same 
as  those  of  my  father's  family,  that  he  was  an  ancestor. 
I  could  never  learn  from  father,  who  cared  so  Httle  for 
such  things.  Tell  her,  too,  with  many  thanks,  that  my 
dear  old  mother  is  well  again.  With  my  love  to  all,  and 
a  bushel  of  kisses  for  Georgie, —  from  both  of  us, —  I  am 
ever  your  friend,  Edwin  Booth. 


AKTICI.IiS    1:KI.(JN(,1.M,    !(/    Ki)Wl.-l    UOOTII. 
(Drawn  by  Otto  Bachcr  from  originals.) 

I.  Bauble  used  in  ••  Fool's  Revenge,"  made  for  and  presented  to  Buotli. 
is  carved  by  hand,  and  engraved  on  the  handle  is  the  following  quotation  : 
•'  O  noble  fool,  O  worthy  fool  — 
Motley  *s  the  only  wear." 
a.  "  Bloody  dagger"  of  Afaclie/h  used  ny  Booth  in  that  character. 

3.  Antique  Roman  brass  lamp  used  by  Booth  in  "  Richelieu." 

4.  Cane  carried  in  "  Taming  of  the  Slirew." 


104  KDWIN    BOOTH 

TO    MISS    EMMA    F.    GARY. 

Nkw  York,  August  26,  1864. 
Di;ar  iriknd: 

...  1  have  at  last  obtained  leave  of  absence,  and  am 
sriit  to  Boston  to  look  after  some  matters  concerning  the 
theatre  here.    .    .    . 

1  have  been  kept  as  busy  as  though  I  had  been  acting 
all  this  while,  for  't  is  my  wish  to  bring  out  several  of  the 
Shaksperian  plays  in  a  superior  style,  and  the  whole  man- 
agement of  the  affair  is  in  my  hands.  I  've  been  in  the 
scene-room  and  wardrobe  night  and  day,  lately. 

.  .  .  Everything  looks  fair  and  prosperous  for  the 
coming  season  at  the  Winter  Garden,  and  when  I  begin 
(Oct.  3),  it  is  the  wish  of  all  concerned  that  I  be  "  kept  at 
it "  until  next  April ;  so  when  shall  I  act  in  Boston  ? 

Dear  mother  is  happy  with  her  children  about  her,  thank 
God !  but  she  still  has  an  absent  one,  the  youngest  boy 
—  strange,  wild,  and  ever  moving;  he  causes  us  all  some 
degree  of  anxiety. 

Y'r  friend,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO   MISS   EMMA    F.    GARY. 

New  York,  28  East  19th  St.,  Oct.  15,  1864. 

MV   DEAR    FRIEND: 

I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  how  delighted  I  was  with  our 
friends  the  Aliens  ever  since  I  met  them,  but  my  old 
complaint  —  procrastination — has  kept  me  back  till  now, 
and  now  that  I  'm  laid  up  on  the  shelf,  as  it  were,  having 
no  excuse  for  further  delay,  I  '11  do  so. 

I  suppose  you  know  that  I  hate  stiff  and  formal  people, 
that  I  am  at  a  loss  when  folk  are  not  genial  and  jolly.  You 
may  have  noticed  this  perhaps  if  you  ever  saw  me  when 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 65 

I  was  obliged  to  be  "  straight-laced,"  and  you  naturally 
infer  that  I  approach  the  professor^  with  a  tremor.  But, 
to  my  great  relief,  of  course,  he  and  all  were  what  may  be 
termed  "  comfortable " ;  so  you  see  you  '11  be  at  home 
when  yoii  meet  them.  I  did  not  meet  Mr.  Fish ;  I  'm 
sorry,  for  he  called  and  expected  me  to  dine  with  him. 

...   I  have  just  had  a  second  pleasant  letter  from , 

in  which  he  pelts  me  "  iambics  "  and  "  accents."  Oh,  I 
tremble  !  If  I  was  only  vain  and  idiotic  enough  to  believe 
myself  a  genius,  I  'd  dare  the  worst,  but,  alas  !  my  idiocy 
and  vanity  (both  of  which  qualities  I  flatter  myself  I  do 
not  lack)  are  too  weak  to  support  me  against  a  full- 
charged  scholar,  ripe  with  lore  and  rich  in  argument. 
However,  I  have  got  till  next  spring  to  "  buckle  on  my 
armor,"  and  my  honesty  shall  not  blush  in  the  confession 
of  my  ignorance.  I  shall  candidly  tell  him  that  what  my 
spirit  bids  me  do,  I  do,  but  that  my  tete  is  ever  in  the 
muddiest  of  muddles  when  called  upon  for  an  explanation 
or  a  solution ;  and  perhaps  he  '11  let  me  pass  as  an  inoffen- 
sive play-actor.  Bye  the  bye,  if  I  don't  forget  it,  I  '11  send 
you  a  picture  of  Barton  Booth,  "  my  ancestor,"  and  you 
may  the  better  judge  if  I  owe  all  to  him.  I  think  there  's 
a  family  resemblance. 

I  am  confined  to  the  house,  and  obliged  to  sit  upright, 
with  my  leg  in  a  sling ;  my  old  enemy,  the  neuralgia,  has 
made  me  quite  lame  and  disagreeable  ;  so  you  can  pardon 
my  style  in  every  sense.  Whenever  I  am  ill  or  very  mad 
I  'm  apt  to  be  ridiculous  when  I  attempt  to  write,  and  I 
am  all  three  just  now.  .  .   . 

Some  of  my  friends  tell  mc  I  'm  a  "natural."  Fitz- 
Mugh  Ludlow  says  I  'm  a  "  splendid  savage."  I  'm 
stupidly  awkward,  I  know,  and  get  scared  at  trifles.  Dear 
Richard  used  to  laugh  at  me  when  I  hesitated  to  meet 
Agassiz  and   Prof.  Felton,  and   would   say,  "  Why,  my 

1  Refers  to  the  late  Professor  Allen  of  Girard  College,  Philadelphia. 


l66  EDWIN    1500TH 

iloar  bo\-,  they  're  just  like  other  men";  but  I  can't  get 
over  ni\-  scluK>l-boy  backwardness.  My  darling  Mary 
used  to  say  she  liked  it  in  me ;  but  then  she  was  always 
trying  to  make  life  soft  and  gentle  for  me  —  she  liked 
everything  in  me.  I  have  mentioned  all  of  this  to  show 
)-ou  how  I  dread  to  meet  people,  and  that  you  may 
judge  lunv  good  our  friends  are. 

And  now  about  the  babies  —  they  come  last  as  a  sort 
of  bonne  bouchc  —  with  the  nuts  and  wine;  mine,  of 
whom  I  know  you  are  anxious  to  hear,  is  now  the  very 
image  of  her  mother,  in  face,  voice,  manner,  affection,  ex- 
pression, soul.  Nothing  can  be  added  to  that;  for  that 
is  all  good,  all  I  crave  for  her.  She  kept  me  happy  while 
I  was  in  Philadelphia,  and  is  the  light  of  my  darkened 
life.  All  my  hopes  and  aspirations  now  are  clustering 
like  a  halo  about  my  baby's  head  ;  to  rear  a  monument  to 
the  mother  in  her  child  is  my  life-study  now.  I  never  had 
an  aim  or  a  hope  before,  and  now  my  life  is  full  of  both. 

Now  I  'm  getting  sentimental,  and  I  must  n't,  for  I  am 
in  a  bad  humor,  and  it  seems  ill-timed  ;  so  kiss  angel 
Georgie  for  us  both  —  Edwina  and  her  "pop."  Tell  her 
she  is  in  every  room  of  this  house,  in  every  variety  of 
doll-baby.  Give  my  best  love  to  your  mother  and  sisters 
and  to  Prof.  Agassiz.    .    .    . 

I  am  withal  a  landowner  in  Philadelphia,  and  expect  to 
reap  a  fortune  for  Edwina  out  of  the  Walnut  street  theatre 
before  I  die.  I  like  the  city  and  the  people  better  than  I 
did,  and  shall  endeavor  to  be  as  often  as  possible  a  visitor 
there  —  particularly  since  I  am  being  driven  out  of  Boston 
by  successful  "  show  pieces  "  and  opera  troupes.  I  en- 
deavored to  effect  an  engagement  there  the  other  day, 
but  to  no  purpose  ;  so  as  Mr.  Clarke'  is  so  very  successful 
at  the  Winter  Garden,  I  must  be  idle  until  the  latter  part 
of  next  month,  I  fear. 

1  My  father's  brother-in-law,  Mr.  John  S.  Clarke,  the  comedian  and  manager. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  167 

Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  oftener  than  my  laziness 
permits  me  to  write,  and 

Believe  me  ever  your  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO    MISS   EMMA    F.    GARY. 

.  .  .  Forrest  has  lately  acted  Coriolanus  both  here 
and  in  Boston.  It  has  never  been  very  successful  on  the 
stage ;  I  have  never  studied  the  character,  nor  should  I 
feel  at  home  in  it ;  with  my  physique  Coriolanus  would 
appear  more  of  a  boaster  than  a  man  of  deeds,  I  fear. 
Richard  II.  I  have  often  thought  of  doing ;  it  has  been 
a  stranger  to  the  stage  since  my  father's  time.  I  never 
saw  him  act  it,  but  I  am  told  it  was  one  of  his  finest 
impersonations.^  .  .  . 

TO    MISS   EMMA   F.    GARY, 

New  York,  January  10,  1865. 
My   dear   FRIEND: 

I  Ve  scarcely  had  breathing-time  since  I  began  oper- 
ations at  the  Winter  Garden.  I  owe  all  my  friends  some- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  letter,  but  the  professor  [Felton] 
only  has  been  attended  to  thus  far,  and  now  for  y'  turn. 

I  've  mislaid  y'  last  communication;  so  't  is  impossible  for 
me  to  answer  questions,  unless  you  will  take  the  trouble  to 
ask  me  them  again.  This  terrible  success  o{  Hamlet  sterna 
to  swallow  up  everything  else  theatrical,  and  the  desire  I 
have  to  follow  it  up  with  something  still  better  done,  if  it 
can  be,  in  the  way  of  costumes  and  scenery,  keeps  me  far 
off  in  fairy-land,  day  and  night,  in  my  dreams  and  in  my 

1  My  father  did  not  perform  Richard  If.  until  many  years  later — a  part  ad- 
mirably suited  to  his  poetic  nature,  but  which  he  always  contended  made  a  better 
reading  than  acting  play. 


lOS  KDWIN    BOOTH 

da\s  (I  can't  say  waking  honrs),  and  time  flics  unheeded 
b\-  nic. 

1  am  startled  to  find  myself  in  another  year.  It  was  '64 
when  1  wrote  you  last.  Was  your  Christmas  a  merry 
one  ?  A  happy  one  I  hope  it  was ;  and  that  this  New 
Voar  may  be  one  of  solace  and  calm  enjoyment  to  your 
souls  is  my  most  earnest  wish.    .    .    . 

M\'  birdie  talks  of  Geortjie,  and  longs  to  sec  her,  .  ,  . 
But  1  am  blessed  in  her  good  health,  her  cheerful  disposi- 
tion, and  the  great  likeness  she  bears  to  her  dear  mother. 
And  I  am  grateful,  too,  for  all  this,  and  do  not  complain 
of  the  little  ills  that  beset  her.    ,    .    . 

I  believe  you  understand  how  completely  I  "  ain't  here  " 
most  of  the  time.  It  's  an  awful  thing  to  be  somebody 
else  all  the  while.  But  I  guess  I  'm  better  off  than  many 
of  my  artist  friends,  some  of  whom  (if  they  are  as  much 
in  their  art  as  I  am)  must  be  bears  and  owls;  others, 
trees  and  rocks,  while  my  Gifford  and  Bierstadt  must  lose 
all  sense  of  being  save  in  the  painted  ripple  of  a  lake,  or 
the  peak  of  a  snow-capped  mountain.    .    .    . 

For  the  present,  good-bye.  I  see  no  chance  of  shaking 
hands  with  any  of  you  this  season,  not  even  in  the  spring, 
unless  I  get  a  respite  for  a  week  or  so,  and  fly  thither  to 
visit  [Mount]  Auburn. 

My  best  love  to  all,  and  believe  me  ever  your  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 

TO    MRS.    RICHARD    F.    GARY. 

New  York,  February  9,  1865. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Gary: 

Pray  don't  speak  of  procrastination.  Of  all  the  idlers 
that  live,  I  verily  believe  I  am  the  head  and  front.  I  was 
delighted  to  hear  from  you,  as  I  always  am,  of  course,  yet 
pained  to  learn  that  dear  little  Georgie  had  given  you 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIEXDS  1 69 

cause  to  grieve.  I  trust  she  is  well  and  quite  rid  of  her 
cough  by  this  time.  I  was  in  hopes  of  seeing  Miss  Gary 
on  her  return  from  Philadelphia.  .  .  .  No,  Edwina  is 
real ;  she  does  not  indulge  much  in  forming  dreams. 
She  says  I  am  her  baby,  and  it  is  her  only  delight  to  kiss 
her  papa  and  be  with  him  all  the  while.  She  is  as  good 
and  as  beautiful  as  the  angel  who  left  her  to  my  care. 
Two  years  ago  to-day  I  last  saw  Mary  alive  !  But,  my 
dear  friend,  a  light  from  heaven  has  settled  fully  and 
firmly  in  my  soul,  and  I  regard  death  as  God  has  intended 
we  should  understand  it  —  as  the  breaking  of  eternal  day- 
light, and  a  birthday  of  the  soul.  I  feel  that  all  my 
actions  have  been  and  are  influenced  by  her  whose  love 
is  to  me  the  strength  and  the  wisdom  of  my  spirit.  What- 
ever I  may  do  of  serious  import,  I  regard  it  as  a  perform- 
ance of  a  sacred  duty  I  owe  to  all  that  is  pure  and  honest 
in  my  nature  —  a  duty  to  the  very  religion  of  my  heart. 
Since  Mary  went  to  join  our  dear  Richard  in  Ghrist's  dear 
love,  I  've  grown  clearer  in  mind  and  heart,  faithful  and 
wise  in  soul,  and  fearless  as  to  the  gloomy  passage  they 
have  taken.  There  are  thousands  of  dangers  and  temp- 
tations that  beset  me  every  hour  of  my  life,  and  naught 
but  the  eternity  of  my  faith  and  love  could  have  up- 
borne me  in  the  struggle  these  tv/o  years  past.  When 
Mrs.  Felton  went  to  join  them,  I  felt  as  though  the  links 
were  being  riveted  that  bind  my  faith  and  draw  me  closer 
and  closer  to  the  unseen  world  ;  so  that  really  I  feel  more 
familiar  with  it  than  with  this,  in  which  I  find  so  little  in 
sympathy  with  my  soul. 

That  sympathy  and  rest  are  needed  for  a  soul  like  mine 
has  been  painfully  manifested  since  this  day  fell  two  years 
ago ;  but  we  all  have  our  "  skeleton  in  the  closet,"  and  it 
is  not  for  me  to  obtrude  the  sight  of  mine  upon  those  who 
have  enough  sorrows  of  their  own  to  bear.  I  don't  know 
why  I  have  fallen  into  such  strain.      Pray  pardon  me. 


I  JO  EDWIN    BOOTH 

ICdwiiia  enjoys  most  excellent  health,  and  she  is  as  full 
of  fun  as  can  be.  I  take  her  out  riding  almost  every  day, 
either  to  the  park,  or  to  visit  the  many  little  girls  vi'ho  all 
seem  to  love  her  very  much.  When  I  go  to  Boston  (next 
March  20,  I  think),  I  shall  take  her  and  her  coupe,  of 
u  hicli  she  is  ver}'  fond,  and  she  can  see  you  and  Georgie. 
...  I  am  sorry  I  shall  not  be  able  to  "  do  "  "  Hamlet  " 
in  Boston  as  we  do  it  here ;  it  is  worth  seeing  as  a  novelty 
in  the  way  of  scenery,  etc.  It  still  continues  to  draw  well, 
and  I  hope  to  play  one  hundred  nights,  which  will  carry 
nic  up  to  the  date  I  set  for  going  to  Boston. 

"  Richelieu  "  is  in  preparation,  and  has  been  for  several 
months  past ;  it  will  be  more  superbly  done  than  even 
"  Hamlet  "  is.  You  see  how  I  am  beginning  to  carry  out 
dear  Richard's  and  my  own  views  in  the  matter,  and  how 
splendidly  the  public  encourage  and  uphold  me  in  it.  Do 
you  think  the  freed  spirit  loses  a/l  interest  in  earthly 
things  —  all  knowledge  of  its  intellectual  cravings  when 
on  earth  ?  May  not  those  who  yearn  to  see  me  carry  out 
the  ideas  we  love  to  think  worthy  of  a  life's  hard  labor, 
rejoice  now  to  see  a  step  made  toward  the  fulfilment  of 
what  is  true  and  beautiful  in  art  ?  I  think  they  do  ;  and 
in  this  belief  I  begin  to  realize  the  usefulness  of  my  labor, 
and  to  appreciate  that  which  I  once  deemed  worthless. 

I  have  one  of  dear  Mrs.  Felton's  letters  still  that  speaks 
of  the  sadness  I  manifested  once  when  speaking  of  my 
profession. 

Edwina  has  had  excellent  health,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  days  after  her  trip  to  Philadelphia,  and  that  scared 
me  so  that  I  think  it  is  wiser  to  keep  her  under  her  grand- 
ma's eye  in  the  city;  but  when  I  go  to  Boston  —  Heaven 
only  knows  when  that  will  be  —  she  shall  accompany  me. 
She  has  grown  passionately  fond  of  her  "far-r-r-ther,"  as 
she  rolls  me  out  of  her  sweet  little  mouth.  I  anticipate  a 
joyful  day  when  she  and  Georgie  meet. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  17I 

...  It  's  all  gone  now,  and  I  believ^e  my  growth 
in  spirit  is  shown  more  in  the  appreciation  of  that  which 
God  sent  me  here  to  do,  than  in  aught  else  that  I  have 
experienced  in  my  life.    .    .    . 


TO    MRS.    RICHARD   F.  GARY. 

New  York,  March   10,  1865. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Gary  : 

Several  times  I  have  attempted  to  acknowledge  the  re- 
ceipt of  your  last  kind  letter,  but  fatigue  and  the  nearness 
of  my  visit  to  Boston  have  caused  me  to  defer  my  reply. 
As  the  time  comes  on,  I  begin  to  fear  the  risk  of  taking 
Edwina  with  me.  I  have  never  opposed  her  grandmother 
in  her  control  of  the  child,  and  she  thinks  it  would  be  a 
dangerous  thing  to  take  her  with  me.  She  lost  a  little 
girl  there  once,  in  the  bleak  east  winds,  and  my  loss  has 
given  me  a  dread  of  them,  too.  Yet  I  hate  to  leave  the 
darling.  She  is  away  from  me  now, — in  Philadelphia, 
with  her  little  cousins, —  and  I  am  as  desolate  and  lonely- 
hearted  as  can  be.  I  am  to  go  there  for  her  after  my 
matinee  of  "  Hamlet "  to-morrow.  I  shall  remain  in  Bos- 
ton three  weeks  only,  and  then  resume  my  work  at  this 
theatre  until  the  spring.  Oh,  how  I  long  for  the  spring ! 
Yes ;  our  news  (no  news  now,  though)  is  indeed  glorious. 
I  am  happy  in  it,  and  glory  in  it,  although  Southern-born. 
God  grant  the  end,  or  rather  the  beginning,  is  now  at 
hand.  For  when  the  war  ceases,  we  shall  only  have  be- 
gun to  live  —  a  nation  never  to  be  shaken  again,  ten 
times  more  glorious,  a  million  times  firmer  than  before. 

I  have  but  ten  more  nights  to  complete  the  one  hun- 
dredth of  "  Hamlet's  "  performance  this  season ;  then  1 
hope  to  give  a  benefit  for  the  "  Shaksperian  Statue  I'^ind." 


I  ;  2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

ill  which  I  am  deeply  interested,  and  retire   to  pack   up 
ni\'  trunks  (ov  Boston.     .     .     . 

tunl  bless  }c)u  all !      Give  my  love  and  dearest  wishes 
to  Mrs.  Cary  antl  all  of  her  family,  and  ever  believe  me 
Your  faithful  friend  and  serv't, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO   MISS   EMMA    F.    CARY. 

Saturday,  May  6,  1865. 
MV    DEAR    FRIEND: 

I  've  just  received  y'r  letter.  I  have  been  in  one  sense 
unable  to  write,  but  you  know,  of  course,  what  my  condi- 
tion is,  and  need  no  excuses. 

I  have  been,  by  the  advice  of  my  friends,  "  cooped  up  " 
since  I  arrived  here,  going  out  only  occasionally  in  the 
evening.  My  health  is  good,  but  I  suffer  from  the  want 
of  fresh  air  and  exercise. 

Poor  mother  is  in  Philadelphia,  about  crushed  by  her 
sorrows,  and  my  sister,  Mrs.  Clarke,  is  ill  and  without  the 
least  knowledge  of  her  husband,  who  was  taken  from  her 
several  days  ago,  with  Junius. 

My  position  is  such  a  delicate  one  that  I  am  obliged  to 
use  the  utmost  caution.  Hosts  of  friends  are  stanch  and 
true  to  me,  here  and  in  Boston.  I  feel  safe.  What  I  am 
in  Phila.  and  elsewhere  I  know  not.  All  I  do  [know] 
of  the  above-named  city  is  that  there  is  one  great  heart, 
firm  and  faster  bound  to  me  than  ever.  Sent  in  answer 
to  dear  Mary's  prayers,  I  faithfully  believe.  She  will  do 
what  Mary  struggled,  suffered,  and  died  in  doing.  My 
baby,  too,  is  there.  Now  that  the  greatest  excitement  is 
over,  and  a  lull  is  in  the  storm,  I  feel  the  need  of  that 
'dear  angel ;  but  during  the  heat  of  it  I  was  glad  she  was 
not  here. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1  73 

When  Junius  and  Mr.  Clarke  are  at  liberty,  mother 
will  come  here  and  bring  Edwina  to  me. 

I  wish  I  could  see  with  others'  eyes ;  all  my  friends  as- 
sure me  that  my  name  shall  be  free  and  that  in  a  little 
while  I  may  be  where  I  was  and  what  I  was :  but,  alas ! 
it  looks  dark  to  me. 

God  bless  you  all  for  your  great  assistance  in  my  be- 
half; even  dear  Dick  aided  me  in  my  extremity,  did  he 
not? 

Give  my  love  to  all,  and  kisses  to  Georgie.    .    .    .    I  do 
not  think  the  feeling  is  so  strong  in  my  favor  in  Phila.  as 
it  is  here  and  in  Boston.     I  am  not  known  there.    .    .    . 
Ever  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO   MISS   EMMA   F.  GARY, 

New  York,  July  31,  1865. 

My    DEAR   FRIEND: 

.  .  .  It  is  a  great  blessing  that  I  have  had  so  much  oc- 
cupation all  this  while,  else  I  should  have  gone  mad,  I  fear. 

My  poor  mother  feels  her  woe  greater  than  she  shows, 
and  I  fear  all  her  life  is  crushed  by  this  last  terrible  one.  .  .  . 

I  have  no  idea  when,  if  ever,  I  shall  act  again.  A  let- 
ter from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hepworth  asks  me  "when,"  as  he 
saw  by  the  papers  it  would  be  soon ;  but  it  rests  with  my 
friends  entirely.     My  heart  is  against  it  for  at  least  a 

year.    .    .    . 

Ever  truly  your  friend,        ^^^.^  ^^^^^ 

to  miss  emma  f.  gary. 

New  York,  Nov.  24,  1865. 
My  dear  friend  : 

Pray  forgive  my  neglect.  I  'vc  been  a  little  bothered 
of  late,  and  could  not  bring  my  mind  to  a  calm. 


»74 


EDWIN    BOOTH 


I  am  glad  you  did  iu)t  wait  for  mc,  but  sent  me  good 
news  of  our  gentle  Amazons/  and  the  dear  ones  at  Cam- 
bridge. .  .  .  Edwina  is  a  perfect  marvel ;  she  is  hke 
Mary  in  everything,  and  is  a  perfect  Httle  woman. 

My  affairs  are  quite  unsettled.  I  don't  know  yet  when 
I  shall  act,  or  what  I  shall  do  next.    .    .    . 

It  seems  a  long  time  since  I  visited  [Mount]  Auburn 
last.  I  have  lost  the  level  run  of  time  and  events,  and 
am  living  in  a  mist.  But  I  am  told  my  health  is  better 
than  it  ever  was.  I  do  not  realize  it,  but  am  bored  by 
people  saying  I  am  gcttbig  fat.  I  am  a  little  Byronic 
in  my  dislike  of  such  compliments,  because  I  don't  feel 
as  I  look. 

Mother  is  very  much  broken,  I  think,  poor  soul !    .    .   . 
She  seems  to  have  still  a  lingering  hope  in  her  heart  that 
all  this  will  prove  to  be  a  dream.    .    .    . 
Y'r  faithful  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO   MRS.  RICHARD  F.  GARY. 

New  York,  Dec'r  20,  1865. 

My    dear   FRIEND: 

.  .  .  Let  it  pass ;  life  is  a  great  big  spelling-book, 
and  on  every  page  we  turn  the  words  grow  harder  to  un- 
derstand the  meaning  of.  But  there  is  a  meaning,  and 
when  the  last  leaf  flops  over,  we  '11  know  the  whole  lesson 
by  heart. 

You  have  also,  doubtless,  heard  that  I  will  soon  appear 
on  the  stage.  Sincerely,  were  it  not  for  means,  I  would 
not  do  so,  public  sympathy  notwithstanding;  but  I  have 
huge  debts  to  pay,  a  family  to  care  for,  a  love  for  the 
grand  and  beautiful  in  art,  to  boot,  to  gratify,  and  hence 

'  Professor  and  Mrs.  Agassiz ;    so  called  from  their  voyage  of  exploration  up 
the  Amazon  River. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  I  75 

my  sudden  resolve  to  abandon  the  heavy,  aching  gloom 
of  my  little  red  room,  where  I  have  sat  so  long  chewing 
my  heart  in  solitude,  for  the  excitement  of  the  only  trade 
for  which  God  has  fitted  me. 

Edwina  reached  the  fourth  round  of  the  dizzy  ladder 
on  the  9th,  and  she  went  with  me  to  have  her  picture 
taken  for  Georgie.  Here  it  is.  I  hope  you  will  like  it. 
Her  health  is  excellent,  and  she  is  my  life. 

I  have  no  idea  when  I  shall  revisit  Boston.  ...  I 
shall  begin  January  3  (Wednesday),  with  Hamlet. 

Give  my  dearest  love  to  all.    .    .    . 

Ever  truly  your  friend, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO    MISS    EMMA   F.    GARY. 

Wednesday,  Sept.  19,  1866. 
My  dear  friend  : 

I  am  so  glad  you  will  be  with  me  on  Saturday,  and 
that  Agassiz  has  consented  to  accompany  you. 

I  find  it  impossible  to  sit  with  spirit  in  the  daytime, 
though  ;  so  you  must  make  due  allowance  for  that.   .   .   . 

I  saw  behind  Prof.  Peirce,  last  evening,  y'r  sister  Sallie 
and — saw  I  right? — Mrs.  Shaw.  I  dare  say  she  saw 
me  too. 

My  brother  J.  B.  went  to  New  York  last  night,  and 
promised  to  bring  Edwina  to  me — if  mother  would  let 
her  come.  It  was  a  fit  of  desperation  on  my  part.  I  had 
to  send  for  her. 

She  wrote  me  the  other  day,  and  sent  me  "  a  little 
souvenir  to  keep  me  good,"  in  the  tiniest  little  envelop 
I  ever  saw. 

When  she  comes  (//"she  comes)  I  will  try  to  take  her 
to  Nahant  (if  weather  permits),  and,  if  \'ou  and  she  agree 


I-O  EDWIN    BOOTH 

to   it,    will   let    her   remain  with    Georgia   a   day   or    so. 
Shall  1  ?    .    .    . 


TO    MISS    EMMA    F.    GARY. 

Toledo  (in  the  West),  Sept.  27,  1868. 

MV    DEAR    FRIEND  : 

I  was  very  much  gratified  the  day  I  left  home  for  my 
"strolling"  tour  by  receiving  a  letter  from  you.  That 
very  day  I  placed  Edwina  at  school  near  New  York.  .  .  . 
As  my  business  will  necessarily  keep  me  "  on  the  rail " 
for  several  years  to  come,  I  concluded  to  place  her  where 
her  mental  and  moral  culture  would  be  attended  to.  .  .  . 
Having  just  received  a  letter  from  her,  I  am  delighted  to 
know  that  she  is  very  happy  and  enthusiastic  on  the  sub- 
ject of  "  school."  .  .  .  She  is  young  in  years,  it  is  true, 
(only  six),  but  in  intellect  she  is  double  that  age,  and  it  is 
better  to  prevent  the  seeds  from  being  sown  than  in  after 
years  to  pull  out  the  weeds.     How  does  this  strike  you  ? 

I  've  heard  of  Dettmer.  What  you  say  of  his  scene 
with  the  Ghost  I  have  often  done,  but  the  play,  and  espe- 
cially that  first  act,  is  so  long  that  I  have  often  omitted  it. 
Many  do  not  like  it ;  others  (and  I  among  them)  consider 
it  absolutely  necessary  to  that  magnificent  scene.  Omit- 
ting the  burial  and  the  rest  of  that  scene  is  after  the  Gar- 
rick  style  of  curtailment.  He  slashed  unmercifully,  altered 
and  changed  scenes  by  wholesale  to  suit  his  ideas  of  stage 
effect.  Now  /  (egotist !)  intend  to  go  even  beyond  Chas. 
Kean  in  my  devotion  to  the  sacred  text  of  the  late  W.  S. 
I  intend  restoring  to  the  stage  (to  mine,  at  least)  the  un- 
adulterated plays  of  Shakspere  :  his  "  Romeo  and  Juliet," 
not  so  performed  since  the  days  of  Betterton,  I  fancy,  un- 
less Barry,  in  opposition  to  Garrick,  revived  it ;  "Richard 
III.,"  which  Chas.  Kean  feared  to  attempt,  and  offered  a 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 77 

weak  apology  for  retaining  the  Gibber  version.  My  re- 
spect for  Kean  runs  high  up  to  that  point ;  there  I  turn 
back,  and  pity  his  feeble  correction  of  Shakspere's  geo- 
graphical blunders  in  "Winter's  Tale."  He  should  have 
ascertained  the  name  of  the  town  in  which  the  wise  man 
lived  who  jumped  into  a  brier-bush. 

My  affairs  are  greatly  mixed.  The  theatre  will  be  com- 
pletely roofed  next  week,  and,  I  hope,  opened  in  Decem- 
ber early  (about  the  14th),  with  as  good  a  company  as  it 
is  possible  to  obtain  in  this  country.  The  enterprise 
swelled  gigantically  on  my  hands,  and  has  attained  such 
proportions  as  would  frighten  any  one  whose  bump  of 
"  don't-care-a-tiveness  "  was  less  than  mine.  I  'm  in  a 
very  big  puddle ;  if  I  can  wade  it,  well ;  if  not,  why,  as 
Bunsby  would  say,  "well,  too."  I  trust  to  fate,  chance, 
or  whoever  that  "  sweet  little  cherub  "  be  that  looks  out 
for  me.  Certain  it  is,  I  have  had  enough  vexation  regard- 
ing this  same  theatre  to  drive  me  mad,  and  yet  I  am  as 
calm  and  as  careless  as  though  the  ultimate  success  were 
a  fixed  fact.  It  will  entail  a  world  of  work  and  anxiety ; 
but  would  n't  life  be  long  and  dreary  without  these  little 
worries  and  bothers  ? 

I  traveled  West  and  South  last  season  from  Sep'r  5  un- 
til June  9 ;  made  lots  of  money,  and  paid  it  out  as  fast  as 
I  could  count  it;  have  just  begun  my  second  tour,  which 
will  last  until  my  theatre  opens.  When  I  began  the  work, 
I  expected  to  be  acting  in  the  theatre  by  this  time,  but 
the  usual  obstacles  —  weather,  rock  strikes,  etc.,  delayed 
it,  and  we  are  only  just  covering  the  "  roof- tree." 

I  shall  be  in  Boston  week  after  next.  When  do  you 
expect  to  be  there  ?  Apropos  of  Dettmer  and  the  Kin<^'s 
"picture  in  little,"  I  think  the  allusion  to  the  courtier's 
wearing  it  is  correct.  Barry  Sullivan  did  the  same 
thing.    .    .    . 


1  jS  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO    MISS    EMMA    F.    GARY. 

ruoviDENCE,  Dec.  I,  1873. 
Mv  DEAR  Miss  Gary: 

Loath  to  intrude  upon  Mrs.  Agassiz's  grief/  and  feeling 
that  I  owe  you  an  apology  and  explanation  regarding  a 
circumstance  that  occurred  during  my  recent  engagement 
at  Boston,  I  venture  to  ask  that  you  will  convey  to  your 
sister  the  assurance  of  my  sympathy  in  her  great  affliction. 

Some  years  ago,  when  friends  of  mine  were  anxious  to 
sustain  me  in  one  of  the  severest  trials  of  my  life.  Prof 
Agassiz's  name  was  solicited  in  my  behalf  He  at  once 
exclaimed,  with  great  feeling,  "  Indeed  he  shall  have  it ;  I 
love  that  boy."  I  need  not  say  how  dearly  I  prize  that 
autograph,  or  how  deeply  I  regret  not  seeing  him,  as  I 
had  hoped,  during  the  few  weeks  I  was  in  Boston. 

I  've  visited  Cambridge  twice;  once  to  pass  a  few  hours 
at  your  home,  but  was  so  unfortunate  not  to  find  you 
there  ;  the  second  visit  (to  Aldrich,  at  Lowell's  house)  was 
so  entirely  occupied  that  I  could  barely  steal  an  oppor- 
tunity to  go  to  Mount  Auburn.  I  intended  to  call  at 
your  house  that  day,  but  was  prevented. 

The  occurrence  to  which  I  refer  at  the  beginning  of  this 
was  the  "  call  "  of  a  gentleman  bearing  a  letter.  ...  I 
trust  you  will  believe  that  illness  alone  caused  the  seem- 
ing rudeness.  It  really  seems  as  though  fate  —  or  some- 
body else — forbids  our  meeting.  ...  I  wanted  so 
much  to  see  little  Georgie,  who  has,  of  course,  passed  on, 
and  left  me  far  behind  ;  and  your  dear  mother  also,  for 
whom  I  have  always  entertained  a  religious  veneration, 
for  to  me  she  is  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  beautiful  and 
sacred  in  mother.  Indeed,  I  've  wanted  to  see  you  all 
very  much ;  for  though  I  can't  talk,  and  am  excessively 

'  Written  upon  the  death  of  Professor  Agassiz. 


LETTERS    TO   HIS    FRIENDS  I  79 

dull,  I  know,  yet  I  take  in  a  great  deal  of  spiritual  strength 
and  peace  from  certain  people  without  opening  my  mouth, 
and  I  look  forward  to  just  an  hour  or  so  of  refreshment 
at  your  cozy  home. 

TO    MR.  HORACE    H.  FURNESS. 

Philadelphia,  Wednesday,  January  21,  1874. 
Dear  Mr.  Furness  : 

I  forgot  to  state  in  my  hurried  note  this  afternoon  that 
this  cow-talk'^  to-day  prevented  Mrs.  B.  from  doing 
anything  toward  her  preparations  for  our  departure  on 
Friday.  She  has  an  engagement  at  my  daughter's  school, 
with  the  teachers.  On  Saturday  the  matinee  performance 
will  absorb  all  her  time,  and  consequently  to-morrow  will 
be  the  only  opportunity  she  will  have  to  pack  six  large 
trunks  and  attend  to  various  other  little  matters. 

When  you  consider  that  she  will  do  all  these  things 
herself,  and  will  superintend  me  at  the  theatre  on  all  oc- 
casions, you  can  judge  how  impossible  it  is  for  her  to  be 
at  your  house  to-morrow. 

I  am  "  on  the  jump  "  for  the  theatre,  and  scratch  this 
as  quickly  as  I  can. 

Hope  you  will  be  able  to  read  it. 

Yours  truly,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO    MR.  WILLIAM    BISPHAM. 

Detroit,  Feb.  15,  1874. 
Dear  Will  : 

Again  you  failed  to  give  me  your  address,  and  I  must 
send  you  this  under  cover  to  McGonigle  or  Joe,  and  let 
the  directory  guide  it  to  your  whereabouts. 

1  Farm  talk  ;  my  father  wanted  to  buy  a  farm  and  end  his  days  in  the  country  ; 
so  he  said  at  the  time  to  Mr.  Furness. 


I  So  EDWIN    BOOTH 

"  If  1  were  as  tcdii^us  as  a  king  "  I  could  but  thank  you, 
in\-  ilc.ir  b()\-,  foi-  all  the  good  things  you  say  to  me;  as 
it  is,  "  1  in  not  of  many  words,  but  I  thank  you,"  briefly, 
but  seriously,  with  all  my  heart.  You  were  almost  the 
fust  to  send  mc  words  of  sympathy,  though  I  am  sure  all 
m\-  friends  fool  it.  This  is  by  no  means  the  heaviest  blow 
mv  lifo  has  folt,  and  I  shall  recover  from  it  very  shortly 
if  my  creditors  have  any  feeling  whatever.' 

My  disappointment  is  great,  to  be  sure,  but  I  have  the 
consciousness  of  having  //vV^/  to  do  what  I  deemed  my 
duty.  Since  the  talent  God  has  given  me  can  be  made 
available  for  no  other  purpose,  I  believe  the  object  to 
which  I  devote  it  to  be  worthy  of  self-sacrifice. 

I  gave  up  all  that  men  hold  dearest,  wealth  and  luxu- 
rious ease  ;  nor  do  I  complain  because  that  unlucky  "  slip 
'twixt  the  cup  and  lip  "  has  spilled  all  my  Ua. 

With  a  continuance  of  the  health  and  popularity  the 
good  Lord  has  thus  far  blessed  me  with  I  will  pay  every 
"  sou,"  and  exclaim  with  Don  Ccesar — though  in  a  differ- 
ent spirit —  "  I  've  done  great  things  !  If  you  doubt  me, 
ask  my  creditors." 

Of  course  I  see  some  years  of  hard  work  before  me — 
all  for  a  "  dead  horse,"  too.  Not  a  very  cheering  pros- 
pect; but  I  '11  worry  it  thro*,  and  thank  God  with  all  my 
soul  when  I  can  cry  "quits  "  with  my  neighbor.  Adieu. 
Ever  thine,  Ted. 

TO    PROFESSOR    HIRAM    CORSON. 

De.\r  Sir:  Pittsburg,  May  3,  1874. 

Your  "  Jottings "  have  revived  my  old  love  for  the 
Folio,  from  which  I  was  driven  by  the  censure  of  those 
whom  I  deemed  wiser  than  myself  in  Shaksperian  lore. 

I  My  father  here  makes  reference  to  his  bankruptcy  and  loss  of  Booth's 
Theater. 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   FRIENDS  l8l 

Wishing  to  pursue  my  way  quietly,  without  provoking- 
criticism,  I  abandoned  many  of  the  readings  which,  I  am 
glad  to  find,  you  prefer  to  those  of  the  Qiiartos  and  more 
modern  improvements;  I  may  particularly  mention  "  there 
is,  my  lord,''  "poor  man's  contumely,"  "  tJiese  fardels," 
"  dispris'd  \ovQ,"  as  being  very  offensive  to  my  critics. 

The  "good  (or  god)  kissing  carrion  "  is,  I  must  confess, 
beyond  my  reach.  I  like  Staunton's  idea  of  Hamlet's 
quoting  from  the  book  he  reads  in  order  to  bother  the 
"tedious  old  fool,"  but  the  many  arguments  the  passage 
has  given  birth  to  puzzle  me  more  than  Hamlet's  crab 
does  Poloniiis.  I  believe,  though,  the  old  man  really 
does  see  the  "  method  "  of  that  seemingly  mad  remark 
clearer  than  do  the  critics.  The  crab  certainly  can  go 
backward,  as  he  likewise  can  go  forward,  but  his  usual 
mode  of  procedure  is  sidetvise,  except  when  he  casts  his 
shell  (or  sheds,  as  the  "  fishmonger  "  hath  it),  when,  in- 
deed, he  does  "  go  backward  "  out  of  his  old  self,  and  be- 
comes, as  it  were,  2i young,  or  "soft-shell,"  crab. 

This  may  be  an  "oft-told  tale" — older  than  "Ham- 
let," perhaps  (I  hope  it  will  not  bore  you),  but  it  is  not 
generally  known ;  it  was  suggested  to  me  by  Monsieur 
Shedder  himself  while,  in  company  with  my  wife  and 
daughter,  I  was  "crabbing"  in  Shark  River;  if  it  be 
true,  then  has  Jersey  contributed  her  quota  to  the  army 
of  Shaksperian  commentators. 

With  thanks  for  your  kindness,  believe  me,  with  great 

respect, 

Yours  very  truly,  Edwin  Booth. 


to  maurice  gkau. 
Dear  Sir: 

It  was  my  intention  to  perform  Hamlet  but  twice, — on 
Monday  and  Tuesday  of  next  week, — but  it  shall  be  given 


lS:i  EDWIN   BOOTH 

on  Wednesday  evening  also,  that  I  may  in  some  slight 
degree  manifest  my  respect  for  Signer  Salvini,  whom, 
unfortunately,  I  have  been  prevented  from  seeing.  I 
trust  that  pleasure  is  yet  in  store  for  me,  and  I  likewise 
hope  that  my  representation  of  that  difficult  character 
may  not,  on  the  third  consecutive  night  (for  which  I  must 
ask  his  indulgence),  result  in  disappointment.  Highly 
gratified  by  the  wish  Signer  Salvini  is  pleased  to  express 
regarding  me,  I  beg  you  will  convey  to  him  this  feeble 
expression  of  my  appreciation  of  the  compliment,  and 
believe  me, 

Truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


Baltimore,  May  14,  1874. 
Dear  Sir  : 

I  am  not  a  "  lecturer,"  but  merely  a  "  poor  player,"  and, 
consequently,  the  £-ood  people  are  doomed  to  disappoint- 
ment. 

The  "  march  of  intellect "  may  defeat  their  silly  prejudi- 
ces when  they  can  gratify  their  curiosity  with  a  peep  at 
the  monster  in  his  proper  sphere,  the  theatre,  but  never, 
I  hope,  on  the  "  platform  "  of  a  lecture-room. 

I  am  sorry  I  cannot  see  you.  I  will,  doubtless,  be 
asleep  when  you  call  to-morrow ;  I  am  not  an  "  early 
bird."  Truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    MR.    HORACE    H.    FURNESS. 

Philadelphia,  December  24,  1875. 
Mv  DEAR  Mr.  Furness: 

After  having  dewowered  your  wittlcs  t'  other  day,  I  be- 
came oblivious  to  everything  save  its  delicious  flavor  and 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 83 

the    influence   of  the  fumes  which   followed   the   repast, 
argal  —  I  forgot  the   "  rubbing  "  ^  you  gave  me. 

I  am  doubtful  if  it  be  strict  delicacy  to  remind  you 
of  it,  but  if  I  do  not  I  fear  you  will  think  I  value  the 
rarity  but  lightly  —  I  am  confident  your  reply  will  be 
"  Ay,  there  's  the  rub  "  (adding,  perhaps,  with  reference  to 
my  poor  pun,  "Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear!"),  and 
send  my  forgotten  treasure  either  by  the  bearer  of  this 
scrawl,  or  before  I  leave  the  city  on  New  Year's  day, 
which  I  hope  will  be  to  you  and  yours  the  glad  forerunner 
of  many  happy  ones. 

Truly  yours,         Edwin  Booth. 

to  mrs.  sanford. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Sanford  : 

Your  "love  for  Richard''  pleases  me  very  much.  I 
fear  my  desperate  efforts  to  overcome  the  depressing  in- 
fluences of  the  atmosphere  seriously  marred  the  delicate 
passages  of  the  play,  while  the  bolder  ones,  I  fear,  were 
pumped  out  with  much  difficulty.  I  was  much  encour- 
aged, however,  by  the  interest  you  manifested  through- 
out, and  am  sincerely  gratified  by  your  thoughtful  and 
kindly  expression  of  it. 

I  hope  Lear  did  not  very  painfully  disturb  the  pleasing 
impression  made  by  Richard.  A  stiff"  neck  and  the  loss 
of  a  nap,  my  custom  always  in  the  afternoon,  made  my 
performance  rather  queer,  and  distressed  me  somewhat. 

Miss  Ward"  seems  to  have  a  very  ingenuous,  childlike 
nature.  For  her  friends'  sake,  as  well  as  the  good  of  the 
profession  she  has  chosen,  I  wish  her  success  with  all  my 
heart.     I  have  had  but  a  moment  to  scribble  this  feeble 

iThe  "  rubbing"  referred  to  was  a  facsimile  of  Shakspere's  epitaph  at  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon. 
iiMiss  Genevieve  Ward,  the  celebrated  actress. 


iS4 


KDWIN    BOOTH 


expression  o\  my  thanks  before  going  to  the  matinee  per- 
ionnancc.  Voii  will  excuse  it,  I  am  sure,  and  believe  me 
to  be,  with  great  respect. 

Very  truly  yours,         Edwin  Booth. 
I'eb.  12.  1876. 

TO    THE    REV.    F.    C.    EWER. 

New  York,  January  21,  1877. 
Mv  DEAR  friend: 

I  am  glad  that  I  have  been  the  cause  of  so  much  plea- 
sure to  you,  and  rejoice  in  your  strong  charity  against 
prejudice. 

If  the  church  would  teach  discrimination  between  the 
true  and  false  in  my  profession,  instead  of  condemning  both 
as  worthless,  to  say  the  least,  the  stage  would  serve  the 
pulpit  as  a  loyal  subject,  and  both  go  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
not  with  "frowning  brow  to  brow,"  through  the  fight. 

I  take  much  pleasure  in  sending  seats  (tickets,  I  should 
say)  for  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday.  Please  use 
them. 

You  will  miss  nothing  by  not  seeing  Claude  Melnotte. 
Some  future  day  for  R^iy  Bias  and  lago,  I  hope. 

Sincerely  yours,         Edwin  Booth. 


TO   THE    REV.  F.  C.  EWER. 

Brooklyn,  Feb.  2,  1877. 
My  dear  Doctor  : 

Your  "After  Shylock  "  note  remains  unanswered;  it 
was  very  good  of  you  to  think  of  me  at  that  late  hour, 
and  to  send  me  such  a  welcome  reward  for  the  pleasure  I 
afforded  you. 

Let  me  thankfully  acknowledge  it  now,  and  assure  you, 


ARTICLES    liEL(j.SC;iNG   TO   EDWIN    BOOTH. 
(Drawn  by  Otto  Bacher  from  originals.) 

1.  Richly  jeweled  sword  worn  in  "Richard  III." 

2.  Crown  worn  by  Booth  in  •'  .Macbeth." 

-i,  4.  Dagjjerand  sheath  worn  by  Booth  exclusively  in  thecharaclerof  ATam- 
///  Handle  studded  with  Bohemian  (farnets  and  topazes  ;  steel  blade  en- 
■..-raved  on  one  side  with  the  Booth  motto,  ••  Ouod  ero  spero  "  ;  on  reverse  side 
with  his  name  and  date  :    "  Edwin  Booth,  1867." 

5.  Wooden  pipe  used  in  "  Hamlet,"  in  scene  with  Rosencrantz  and  Oull- 
'lenatcrn. 

6.  King  worn  by  Booth  in  "  Hamlet  "  during  a  period  of  thirty  years. 


lj^6  EDWIN    BOOTH 

toi>,  that  1  fully  appreciate  the  sentiments  you  dared  not 
express  in  deference  to  my  bashfulness,  but  which  can  be 
closely  read  in  every  line. 

As  tile  actor  has  so  surprised  and  gratified  you,  so  will 
he,  1  hope,  when  you  know  him  better,  be  found  an  im- 
provement on  the  "awkward"  boy  of  long  ago,^  and 
worthy  of  your  friendship.  Time  and  trials  have  subdued 
"  Ted  "  into  a  rather  "  poky  kind  of  old  fogy,"  whose  sole 
delight  is  in  the  retirement  of  home,  with  his  wife  and 
child,  a  very  (c\v  friends,  and  his  pipe, 

I  hope  ere  many  years  go  by  to  perch  permanently  in 
New  York,  and  cease  my  flight  in  search  of  wherewithal 
to  "  pay  the  piper."  Then  shall  I  have  some  leisure  for 
social  intercourse  and  enjoyment  of  just  such  as  Ewers — 
pardon  the  pun  ?  Till  then  I  must  be  on  the  wing,  with 
little  thought  for  anything  beyond  the  nightly  demand  of 
my  profession,  which  renders  me  unfit  for  society,  save 
that  of  my  family.    .    .    . 

Your  friend  ever,         Edwin  Booth. 


TO   DAVID    C.  ANDERSON. 

Philadelphia,  March  ii,  1877. 
My  dear  Dave: 

Your  worship  ('s  pipe)  is  about  the  last  man  in  our 
mouth  ere  going  to  bed  o'  nights;  so  don't  think  thou  art 
quite  forgot.  When  last  heard  from,  you  were  about  to 
reestablish  the  ranch  at  Alameda  ;  what  will — what  won't 
you  do  next  ?  Some  cycles  of  time  beyond  eternity,  I 
dare  say,  you  '11  begin  to  settle  down  for  a  rest.  As 
things  have  turned  out,  and  up,  I  'm  glad  you  did  not 
come  eastward,  for  theatricals  have  been  at  a  terrible  dis- 
count; though  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful,  with 

1  Mr.  Ewer  was  my  father's  earliest  dramatic  critic. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  1 87 

no  cause  for  complaint,  yet  my  business  has  been  worse 
than  for  many  years,  and  I  guess  I  've  done  better  than 
any,  from  all  I  can  hear.  Next  season  will  be  a  far 
brighter  one  for  all  trades,  especially  ours.  We  may  be 
happy  yet. 

We  start  for  dear  old  Baltimore  at  noon  to-morrow 
(for  two  weeks);  then  a  week's  rest  in  New  York,  before 
going  East,  where  I  expect  to  do  a  fine  business.  Strange 
to  say,  in  Brooklyn,  where  the  catastrophe'  occurred,  my 
houses  were  crowded  for  two  weeks;  elsewhere  the  peo- 
ple have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock. 

Edwina  gets  occasional  envelops  full  of  stamps  from 
some  one  in  'Frisco  ;  if  from  Edwards,  as  I  suspect,  thank 
him  kindly  for  her  and  her  "  awful  Dad."  J.  and  P." 
throw  up  Booth's,  and  Ames  is  after  me  to  take  it  — 
shall  I  ? 

Vive  la  Buttermilk !     Adieu.     God  bless  you  both  ! 

Ted. 

TO   THE   REV.    DR.    F.    C.    EWER. 

Boston,  May  13,  1877. 
My  dear  Doctor: 

I  've  twice  tried,  in  vain,  to  accomplish  the  promised 
letter.  For  why  ?  I  have  not  matter  in  me  for  such  a 
purpose.  Beyond  the  flat  and  insipid  "just  that  I  am 
well,  and  business  ditto,"  my  monotonous  life  affords  no 
material  worthy  of  note. 

The  present  week  (which  I  greet  with  joy  this  blessed 
day)  will  terminate  my  long  season's  labors,  and  I  yearn 
for  the  good  stretch  I  shall  take.    .    .    . 

The  footlight  limit  is  a  sealed  Greek  book  to  me.  I 
rarely  know  who  's  President,  and  tliat  there  's  a  "  muss 

1  The  burning  of  the  Park  TliratiT  in   Hroolclyn,  wilti  great  loss  of  life. 
'- Jarrett  and  Palmer. 


iSS  EDWIN    BOOTH 

'twixt  ihc  Turk  ami  tlic  Russ";  therefore  my  correspon- 
dence and  conversation  must  needs  be  vapid.  I  sent  you  a 
paper  t"  other  day  containing  an  article  on  "Richard  II." 
If  you  have  not  seen  that  play,  I  hope  you  will,  if  ever  I 
act  it  again  in  your  vicinit)'.  I  will  endeavor  hereafter, 
when  I.  travel,  to  send  you  the  papers  that  criticize  and 
don't  abuse  me ;  it  is  usually  a  little  of  the  one  and  much 
of  the  other,  though. 

Adieu.      My  daughter  joins  me  in  kindly  greetings  to 
yourself  and  family. 

Faithfully  yours,     Edwin  Booth. 


TO   THE    REV.    DR.    F.    C.    EWER. 

St,  Louls,  October  i,  1877. 

MV    DEAR    FRIEND: 

I  sent  you  a  paper  t'  other  day,  just  to  let  you  know 
that  you  are  not  forgotten  by  one  who  is  positively 
ashamed  of  his  negligence. 

I  shall  offer  no  excuses,  but  obediently  extend  my  hand 
for  the  merited  rap  for  being  careless.  This  is  a  desper- 
ate attempt  to  write  you.  I  have  braced  up  "  each  cor- 
poral agent"  to  this  great  feat;  therefore  be  prepared  to 
be  astounded  by  the  wealth  of  information  I  have  so  long 
reserved  for  you,  and  which  now  finds  vent  in  these  few 
eloquent  voids.  Health  and  crowded  houses  have  thus 
far  blessed  me,  and  the  outlook  for  the  balance  of  my 
Western  tour  is  very  encouraging.  This  is  about  all  I 
know  beyond  the  limit  of  my  fancy  world,  where  I  dream 
my  life  away ;  therefore  my  letters  must  needs  be  flat  and 
dull ;  so  do  not  think  me  thoughtless  in  my  silence. 
.  The  first  criticism  of  my  acting  was  written  by 
yourself,  though  many  puffs  had  previously  appeared,  and 
what  you  then  wrote  would  be  an  interesting  addition  to 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 89 

the  many  selections  collected  concerning  my  theatrical 
career.  .  .  .  After  six  nights  more  of  this  warm  St. 
Louis  weather,  I  hope  to  breathe  fresher  air  in  Cincinnati, 
where  I  shall  remain  two  weeks.  Should  you  have  an 
idle  hour  during  the  next  three  weeks,  let  me  have  a  por- 
tion of  it,  done  up  in  a  letter  form  and  addressed  to  Rob- 
inson's opera-house,  in  the  last-named  city.  Between 
rehearsals  and  the  play  we  have  a  French  class. 

I  have  this  season  restored  Shakspere's  "  Richard  III." 
in  place  of  Gibber's  version,  and  hope  to  secure  a  fixed 
place  for  it  in  the  acted  drama.     You  see  I  am  not  idle. 

My  little  one  joins  in  kind  remembrances  to  yourself 
and  family. 

You  must  see  me  act  again  next  winter  at  Booth's 
Theatre.  Faithfully  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    THE    REV.  MR.  EWER. 

Louisville,  November  ii,  1877. 
My  dear  friend  : 

Were  I  not  so  bad  a  postman,  you  should  long  ere  this 
have  received  a  four-paged  thanks  for  the  valuable  con- 
tribution you  sent  me.  Had  I  suspected  that  my  re- 
quest would  have  caused  you  so  much  trouble,  as  I  can 
plainly  see  it  did,  it  would  not  have  been  made.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  had  some  old  duplicates  of  the  papers  and 
magazines,  whose  absence  from  the  store-room  would  be 
a  relief  to  the  good  lady  of  your  house.  I  know  that  you 
will  say  (sincerely,  too)  that  it  pleased  you  to  gratify  my 
wish,  and  that  "  the  labor  we  delight  in  physics  pain," 
and  yet  it  was  a  labor  to  copy  so  much  matter  of  little  in- 
terest now  to  you,  perhaps,  but  valuable  to  me. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  I  intended  to  restore  Shakspere's 
"Richard  [III.]  "  in  lieu  of  Gibber's  patchwork  drama? 


igO  EDWIN    BOOTH 

If  not,  1  '11  Ull  you  now  that  I  have  acted  it  several  times 
to  the  satisfaction  of  even  adverse  critics,  who,  while 
abiisinj^  nie,  declare  the  restoration  a  success.  I  shall 
endeavor  to  j^ive  it  a  good  cast  in  New  York,  in  order  to 
make  it  run,  and  thus  educate  the  ignorant,  who  suppose 
Cibber's  bosh  to  be  Shakspere's  tragedy. 

To-morrow  I  make  my  second  dive  into  the  Mam- 
moth Cave,  and  e.xpect  to  pass  my  "  forty-fourth " 
(Tuesday  next)  beneath  the  roots  of  primeval  trees.  This 
visit  is  for  Edwina's  sake.  This  is  my  first  rest  since  I 
began  work  September  lo,  and  I  really  feel  the  need 
thereof.  Heavy  tragedies  seven  times  a  week  make 
rather  serious  playing,  and  I  'm  glad  enough  to  run  a 
few  days  among  the  trees  and  caves  of  old  "  Kaintuck," 
even  at  this  season  of  the  year.  Happily,  however,  the 
weather  is  quite  pleasant. 

I  have  sent  you  an  occasional  paper,  which  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  do  ;   two  will  start  with  this  to-morrow. 

Believe  me  very  thankful  for  your  kindness  and  happy 
in  your  friendship. 

My  regards  to  your  entire  household. 

Sincerely  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    HORACE    II.    FURNESS. 

Philadelphia,  Tuesday. 
Hail,  sire  of  the  wizard,^  hail  ! 

I  could  not  send  you  word  yesterday,  owing  to  numer- 
ous nuisances  that  beset  me.  I  arrived  late,  on  a  fast 
train,  with  a  headache  caused  by  hunger;  found  my 
rooms  here  uncomfortable,  and,  worse  than  all  that 's  bad, 

'  This  refers  to  Mr.  Furness's  little  daughter  Polly,  who  had  entertained  my 
father  with  a  number  of  very  clever  sleight-of-hand  tricks. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  I9I 

a  bore.  ...  I  found  a  bore  under  the  very  roof  with 
me  ! 

I  '11  tell  you  about  him  when  we  chat. 

I  scratch  this  in  hot-haste  to  ask  you  not  to  expect  me 
to-day.  I  have  several  letters  to  write  before  I  leave 
this  house,  and  as  I  am  not  a  very  ready  writer,  it  may 
take  me  from  now  till  twilight  to  spell  'em  out. 

If  your  cold  will  permit,  come  to  my  den.  Will  see 
you  to-morrow  sure  at  two  —  as  in  ye  olden  time. 

Love  to  Polly  and  her  pa,  with  compliments  to  Miss 
L and  the  season's  blessings  for  you  all.  E.  B. 


TO    HORACE   H.    FURNESS. 

Thursday. 
Dear  Horace: 

I  'm  afraid  to  venture  out  to-day ;  my  cold  is  better, 
but  as  I  shall  require  all  my  voice  to-night,  I  think  it 
safer  to  nurse  my  throat  for  the  occasion.  Barrett  also  is 
under  the  weather,  and  deems  it  best  to  keep  close.  We  're 
a  bad  lot.  Will  you  come  to  the  "  show  "  to-night,  or 
shall  we  post  to  the  "  Penn  "  after  the  play  and  meet  you 
there  ? 

To-morrow  Polly  must  bring  you,  willy-nilly,  if  but  for 
a  (qw  moments.  Sorry  to  the  core  that  I  have  been  kept 
from  you  during  this  visit,  and  especially  do  I  grieve  for 
my  loss  to-day.     Adieu. 

Thine  ever,  Edwin. 

P.  S. —  I  omitted  Barrett's  regrets  ;  he  asked  me  to 
tell  you  how  sorry  he  is,  and  sends  all  kinds  of  good 
words  for  you  — but  which  I  am  too  lazy  to  spell  out. 

E. 


ic;2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Baltimore,  April  20,  1878. 

MV  DKAR    MU.  FURNESS: 

Since  you  like  the  "  prompt-book,"  I  send  herewith 
copies  of  "  Lear,"  "  Richard  II."  and  "  Richelieu,"  for 
your  collection  of  dramatic  "  odds  and  ends  "  ;  there  will 
be  no  others  issued  until  next  fall,  when  I  will  send  "  Mac- 
beth "   and    "  Othello."      Mr.   W apologizes   for   my 

ruthless  manipulation  of  the  text,  in  better  phrase  than  I 
can  put  it;  therefore  I  will  say  no  more  than  that  I 
could  n't  help  it. 

Your  letter  to  me  is  superlatively  good  (with  three 
"  verys  "  at  least).  I  know  not  how  to  thank  you  for  it. 
The  suggestion  that  my  wife  should  make  some  record  of 
my  "  stage  tricks  "  is  oddly  apropos.  Ever  since  our  mar- 
riage she  has  been  "  takin'  notes  "  of  how  and  why  I  do 
certain  things  in  the  course  of  my  performances,  but  will 
not  be  able,  I  fear,  to  accomplish  what  you  are  good 
enough  to  say  should  be  preserved. 

She  wishes  me  to  ask  a  favor  of  you  —  say  "no"  if  it 
dislikes  you  :  may  she  use  your  letter  in  the  event  of  her 
publishing  what  she  is  now  writing  for  private  eyes,  and 
for  her  own  gratification  merely  ?  It  would  serve  as  a 
good  excuse  for  so  bold  a  step  should  she,  at  some  future 
time,  be  tempted  to  take  it. 

Please  do  not  bother  about  answering  my  letters  (much 
as  I  like  to  hear  from  you,  for  you  always  make  me  feel 
my  labor  is  not  altogether  lost) ;  don't  reply  until  some 
idle  day  hangs  heavily  on  your  patience,  and  you  've 
naught  else  to  do. 

Commend  us  both  most  kindly  to  Mrs.  Furness,  and 
believe  me 

Very  truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  1 93 

New  York,  68  Madison  Ave.,  Sept.  8,  1878. 
My  dear  Furness: 

You  see  I  have  not  forgotten  the  precious  privilege  you 
granted  me,  albeit  for  ages  I  have  deferred  the  use  of  it. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  acknowledge  your  favor  at 
once,  and  assure  you  that  your  warm  (covert  thrust  at 
your  patronymic)  did  thaw  my  "  too,  too  solid  "  iciness ; 
to  dispense  with  cold  formality  and  to  greet  you  famil- 
iarly—  though  no  whit  less  respectfully — as  a  friend  for 
whom  I  entertain  an  affectionate  admiration. 

But  the  dread  of  boring  you,  as  I  am  so  frequently 
bored,  checked  me,  and  I  concluded  to  "  give  you  a  rest," 
as  the  classic  gamins  say  ;  to  wait  till  I  should  have  some 
excuse  for  bothering  you  with  more  of  my  "  weary,  stale, 
flat  and  unprofitable  "  correspondence.  (ASIDE.  I  will 
not  swear  that  laziness  had  naught  to  do  with  my 
conclusions.) 

All  my  prompt-books  are  prepared  at  last,  and  W 

has  just  published   "  Macbeth  "   and   "  Brutus,"  which  I 
will  send  herewith. 

See  you  now  my  "  why  "  for  writing  ?  "  It  is  the 
cause, —  my  book  it  is  the  cause  !  " 

Do  you  consider  me  utterly  idiotic  for  supposing  that 
Macbeth  refers  to  Banqiids  gory  locks  when  he  says, 
"  Thy  hair,  thou  other  gold-bound  brow"?  They  and 
the  "twenty  mortal  murders" — or  trenched  gashes! 
whatever  it  is — are  ever  in  his  mind's  eye.  May  not  the 
spectral  kings  bear  upon  their  brows,  as  a  spiritual  birth- 
mark, so  to  speak,  locks  of  bloody  hair,  to  indicate  their 
descent  ? 

I  have  my  ghastly  super-kings  so  "boltered,"  but  their 
distance  from  the  spectators  in  the  dark  cavern  destroys 
the  (perhaps  far-fetched)  attempt  to  illustrate  this  ques- 
tionable passage.     Has  this  view  of  it  ever  been  taken  ? 


194 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


My  wit'o  makes  mention  of  it,  among  other  queer  notions 
o(  mine  own,  in  her  memorials  of  my  "  mummery." 

(^)li !  —  she  bids  me  thank  you,  ere  I  release  you  from 
this  infliction,  for  your  kind  permission  to  quote  your 
letter.  Though  frequently  urged  to  do  what  she  is  doing, 
yours  is  the  only  zvrittcn  suggestion  she  has  received ;  it 
pleased  her  so  much  that  she  expressed  a  desire  to  use  it 
as  an  excuse  for  her  follies  should  she  ever  "  prent  'em." 


TO   DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

New  York,  Jan.  26,  1879. 
Dear  "OLD  fellers": 

It  me  rejoiceth  to  know  that  you  were  tickled  with  the 
toys  I  sent  you.  If  you  derived  from  them  half  the  en- 
joyment your  silver  spade  afifordeth  me  o'  Fridays,  when 
with  it  I  shovel  in  the  sheepshead,  porgies,  shad,  etc., 
you  must  indeed  have  been  pleased  with  them.    .    .    . 

Glad  you  enjoyed  your  1st  so  sensibly,  though  I  con- 
fess I  should  have  liked  just  a  taste  o'  that  snotvjer  by 
way  of  welcoming  the  New  Year  in  :  mine  was  water. 

I  danced  around  and  made  calls  (first  time  in  my  life), 
and  have  since  then  been  "  at  home  "  Saturday  evenings 
—  in  a  dress-suit,  playing  the  role  of  host  to  friends  and 
other  callers.      I  am  getting  used  to  it. 

All  right  about  the  "  Lone  Moujitai?i."  ...  I  believe 
an  enterprising  man  could  do  well  by  those  matches  in 
these  parts ;  all  who  see  them  want  some.  There  is  a 
chance  for  you.  Fetch  a  Chinese  "  match-maker  "  with 
you,  and  set  up  a  match-ri-money-all  factory  here.  Our 
weather  is  delightful ;  just  brisk  enough  to  be  encourag- 
ing ;  with  clean,  dry  sidewalks,  and  sleighs  in  the  roadway, 
it  is  really  delightful  to  loaf  the  streets.  I  have  sent  for 
a  sleigh,  to  give  Edwina  her  first  ride  in  the  snow.     She 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 95 

and  I  take  horseback  exercise,  twice  a  week — just  un- 
der the  place  where  you  and  I  drank  lemonade,  near  the 
park.  It  is  a  fine  riding-academy  now.  .  .  .  God  bless 
you !  Ted. 

TO   DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

68  Madison  Avenue,  New  York,  Friday,  1879. 

.  .  .  What  a  ponderous  shame  it  is  that  we  have  seen 
so  little  of  each  other.    .    .    . 

My  time  has  been  passed  in  "  posing "  for  McEntee  ^ 
from  nine  and  a  half  until  dinner-time,  on  every  day 
that  I  have  been  able,  and  I  have  hardly  had  a  chance  to 
see  my  mother.    .    .    . 

You  must  not  feel  hurt,  o\d  fel,  because  I  have  been  so 
absent;  in  the  course  of  two  weeks  all  the  portraits  will 
be  finished,  after  which  my  time  will  be  all  my  own  ;  but 
before  then  I  must  see  you.  Don't  stand  on  ceremony 
with  Ted,  but  drop  in  as  often  as  you  can,  and  I  '11  do 
ditto  as  soon  as  I  can.  Give  my  loving  welcome  to  your 
wife,  and  both  of  you  come  here  some  evening,  and  have 
a  smoke.  Did  you  use  the  National  Academy  tickets  ? 
I  expect  to  have  some  of  the  portraits  I  have  been  stand- 
ing for  here  to-night ;  there  are  three  more  to  be  painted. 
Have  n't  yet  got  all  my  books  unpacked.  My  library  is 
still  "  litter-ary."  Since  I  began  this  I  have  had  my  din- 
ner—  what  d'  ye  think  I  had?  Sheepshead.  Do  you 
remember  our  castles  in  the  air? — one  of  'cm  was  at 
Sheepshead  Bay,  where  poor  old  Budge  longed  to  visit  us. 
Heigho,  "the  merry  days  of  youth!"  etc.  I  send  this 
to-day  for  fear  I  may  be  again  prevented  from  calling  at 
your  house  to-morrow  afternoon,  as  I  intend  to  do. 

Adios.     Ever  yours,  Ted. 

1  The  late  Jervis  McEntee,  the  celebrated  artist,  who  painted  my  father' .s  por- 
traits in  eleven  Shaksperian  characters,  now  the  properly  of  The  Players  Club. 


196  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO    DAVID   C.  ANDERSON. 

Chicago,  April  13,  1879. 

You    DEAR    OLD    RlT: 

I  am  apjiallcd  at  your  condux  !  You  don't  deserve  a 
letter,  but  I  nnist  speak,  else  I  '11  burst  with  my  indig. 
How  tiare  you  ?  Here  have  I  been  planning  airy,  fairy 
fabrics  for  your  future,  and  you  go  and  plant  yourself  in 
a  living  grave  among  the  sandhills.  Knob  Hill,  indeed ! 
'T  will  be  "one  for  his  knob"  in  a  different  sense  from 
that  you  'd  prefer  when  Kearney  gets  up  again  against 
you  bloated  Knob-Hillers.  Lookout!  When  the  Chay- 
neeze  do  go,  you  '11  be  obliged  to  take  in  "  washee, 
washee  "  for  all  your  aristocratic  Knobbery.   Beware  !  .  .  . 

For  a  few  moments  I  seriously  considered  a  trip  to 
'Frisco  after  I  close  here  in  May,  but  gave  up  the  idea. 
Unless  some  extra  inducement  (in  the  way  of  comfort  as 
well  as  coin)  be  offered,  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
go  so  far.  ...  I  hope  all  your  bank  troubles  will  be 
more  than  doubly  requited,  and  that  some  billionaire 
(that  's  better  than  your  million  one)  may  want  your 
shanty  soon.  .  .  .  All  I  can  hear  of  theatricals  is  poor, 
outside  of  the  several  "Pinafore  "  successes,  in  the  larger 
cities.     We  all  send  love  to  you  both.     God  bless  you. 

Ted. 


TO   THE   REV.    DR.    F.    C.    EWER. 

Chicago,  April  27,  1879. 
My  DEAR  Ewer: 

I  telegraphed  (by  proxy)  my  thanks  for  your  kind  con- 
gratulations on  my  escape;  but  I  'm  under  the  impression 
that  some  mistake  in  your  address  occurred.  I  hope  not. 
The  shock  of  the  lunatic's  freak  nearly  laid  M up;  we 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 97 

all  were,  of  course,  terribly  shaken.    .    .    .    But  we  have 
received  (thank  God!)  no  further  harm. 

Be  sure,  my  friend,  that  we  are  devoutly  grateful  to 
God,  whose  interposition  saved  me.  Nothing  in  my 
eventful  career  has  so  profoundly  impressed  me  with  the 
nothingness  of  this  little  life,  and  the  vastness  of  God's 
goodness.  I  hope  my  memory  of  this  horror  may  never  be 
entirely  deadened,  but  that  it  will  remain  alive  to  sustain 
and  guide  me  through  the  rest  of  this  uncertain  journey. 
I  can  tell  you  no  more  than  what  the  papers  have  already 
published,  except  that  I  received  to-day  a  scrawl  from  the 
madman  (in  jail),  saying  he  would  "  drop  the  matter"  for 
nine  hundred  dollars,  or  hurt  me  "  til  I  dy." 

The  case  comes  up  this  week,  and  I  hope  that  he  will 
be  safely  cared  for  during  the  remainder  of  his  earthly 
existence. 

My  daughter  joins  me  in  thanks  to  you  all  for  your 
thoughtfulness  in  our  trouble.     With  love,  I  am. 

Ever  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO    E.    C.    STEDMAN. 

Chicago,  April  27,  1879. 
My  dear  Stedman: 

I  can  give  you  no  further  information  concerning  the 
"  Fool's  Revenge  "  beyond  that  which  the  papers  already 
published ;  I  sent  you  one  as  soon  as  I  recovered  from  the 
immediate  effects  of  the  affair.  .  .  ,  Do  not  think  that  this 
implies  a  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  horror  which  has  been, 
by  God's  providence,  prevented.  No ;  my  temporary 
self-control  gave  way  after  a  day  or  two  to  a  highly  nervous 
excitement  —  a  condition  similar  to  that  which  I  bcHeve 
Shakspere  illustrates  by  Hamlet's  frivolity  after  the  ghost 
is  gone,  and  the  terrible  tension  of  his  brain  is  relaxed. 
I  have  a  ghostly  kind  of  disposition  to  joke  about  the 
13- 


igS  EDWIN   BOOTH 

atTair  which  is  hardly  controHablc.  To-day  I  received  a 
threatening  scrawl  from  the  fellow,  saying  the  matter 
woiikl  be  dropped  for  nine  hundred  dollars.  .  .  .  There 
was  never  a  clearer  case  of  insanity.  I  am  told  there  is 
a  phase  of  it  called  histriomania  (such  as  crushed  "  tra- 
gedians "  have,  T  fancy),  and  this  appears  to  be  his  con- 
dition .  .  .  The  terrible  shock  prostrated  us,  and  caused 
us  all  great  mental  suffering,  but,  thank  God  !  no  further 
injury  is  done. 

I  have  not  yet  heard  from  Irving.  .  .  .  Accept  our 
thanks  for  your  timely  congratulations,  and  believe  me 
sincerely  yours,  Edwin  Booth, 

TO    DAVID    C.  ANDERSON. 

Chicago,  May  i,  1879. 
My  dear  Dave  : 

.  .  .  Your  letter  of  the  24th  just  received.  Of  course 
we  have  had  a  great  deal  of  agitation  since  the  terrible 
shock  of  that  Wednesday  night,  but,  thank  God  !  no  real 
harm  was  done  beyond  the  filthy  scandals  which  such 
events  give  rise  to.  The  man  is  some  poor  lunatic,  and 
thinks  himself  to  be  a  great  tragic  genius. 

I  can  well  imagine  the  shock  you  and  your  dear  wife 
must  have  felt,  when  you  read  the  despatch  about  Ted, 
but  my  shock  did  not  "  set  in  "  till  a  day  or  two  after, 
when  the  nervous  strain  relaxed,  and  I  began  to  realize 
the  horror  of  my  situation.  Poor  Mary  suffered  worse 
than  all,  of  course,  owing  to  her  physical  weakness,  and, 
for  several  nights  after,  her  dreams  were  all  about  me  and 
bullets.  Thank  the  good  God,  who  has  guarded  me  in 
so  many  hairbreadth  'scapes,  we  are  all  right  again,  and 
the  mad  man  is  in  safe  keeping.  I  have  hopes  to  send 
him  to  an  asylum,  for  he  is  dangerous,  and  at  any  time 
in  the  far  future  he  may  be  tempted  to  repeat  the  act  of 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  1 99 

frenzy.  I  have  since  had  a  threatening  letter  signed  with 
his  name,  and  one  from  his  cousin  telling  a  plain  story  of 
the  fellow's  madness  on  the  subject  of  acting,  and  appeal- 
ing to  my  leniency  in  his  (Gray's)  behalf.  My  only  object 
and  hope  is  to  have  him  safe  from  harm-doing,  for  I 
doubt  if  such  a  craze  can  ever  be  thoroughly  cured.  It 
is  sad  to  know  that  little-souled  things  endeavor  to  throw 
doubt  on  this  terrible  fact,  by  caUing  it  an  advertising 
trick.  I  wish  them  no  further  harm,  however,  than  just 
such  a  glimpse  of  what  those  bullets  revealed  to  me.  It 
might  make  them  more  charitable  and  serious  in  their 
thoughts  and  daily  dealings.  I  have  had  some  dozen 
deadly  escapes  in  my  time,  but  this  one  (perhaps  because 
I  'm  older,  and  have  other  lives  to  think  of)  has  impressed 
me  more  sensibly  than  all  the  rest.  Poor  mother  !  Think 
of  her,  and  all  the  horrid  past  reviewed  by  this  event !  She 
cannot  rid  herself  of  the  sight  of  my  lying  dead,  while  all 
the  miseries  of  her  great  sorrow  are  renewed  by  memories 
thus  awakened. 

But  enough  of  this ;  it  is  of  the  past,  though  I  shall 
never  forget  it,  nor  my  gratitude  to  Almighty  God. 

I  hope  you  may  have  many  years  of  happiness  in  your 
new  home.  ,  .  .  I  'm  pressed  to  death  by  letters  and  in- 
terviewers, and  have  to  scratch  at  you  in  great  haste.  This 
is  my  father's  birthday.      I  '11  never  forget  Shakspere's.^ 

Business  not  good  —  the  first  indifferent  engagement  I 
ever  played  here.     Am  I  playing  out? 

Write  me  often  and  soon.  My  love  to  all  who  care  for 
me,  with  loads  of  it  for  yourself  and  the  bride.  Bless  'cm 
both.  I  wish  they  were  in  New  York,  though.  Mary 
and  daughter  are  out,  and  I  am  all  alone  to-day,  but  I 
know  they  will  echo  my  words  of  love  to  your  folks. 

Always  yours,  Ted. 

1  The  lunatic,   Mark   Gray,  shot  at  my  father  in  the  theatre   on   April  23, 
Shaksperc's  birthday. 


200  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO    MR.    DAVID   C.    ANDERSON. 

68  Madison  Avenue,  New  York,  June  20,  1879. 

Dear   Paw: 

Hcshrow  me  for  letting  thee  wait  so  wearily  for  a  let- 
ter !  Gadzooks  !  my  brave,  I  knew  not  I  was  so  at  fault. 
Methouij^ht  I  owed  thee  otic  ("  for  his  Knob  "),  and  have  oft 
of  late  reproached  my  procrastinating  laziness  for  not 
writing  thee ;  but  I  've  lost  the  run  of  time  and  circum- 
stances lately,  from  no  cause  whatever,  except  down- 
right laze.  This  very  day  I  was  thinking  of  thee,  my 
Davy,  and  determined  to  write  thee  sure  by  next  Sab- 
bath (day  after  to-morrow) ;  but  lo  !  I  must  go  visiting  at 
Greenwich  from  this  evening  until  next  Monday  night, 
therefore  I  scratch  this  hurriedly,  as  much  as  I  can  squeeze 
into  an  envelop  'twixt  now  and  the  hour  of  starting. 
Since  I  began,  a  lovely  lady  came  in,  and  checked  my 
rapid  flight  to  thee,  but  now  that  she  is  gone  "  I  'm  a  man 
again,"  etc.  .  .  .  My  dear  boy,  the  shock,  though 
severe  at  first,  has  left  no  trace  of  fear  or  nervousness. 
We  are  as  clam  as  calms  (or  wisey  worsy).  As  for  any 
sound  of  wocfulness  from  me  regarding  biz,  do  not  heed 
what  I  may  utter.  If  I  sh'd  squash  as  flat  as  a  first-class 
tragic,  I  'd  not  grieve  longer  'n  a  inch  o'  time,  at  most. 
Do  try  to  send  your  address  whenever  you  write ;  I  have 
to  hunt  over  a  barrel  of  papers  when  I  want  to  find  you. 
Hope  with  all  my  heart  that  your  new  venture  (what- 
ever it  may  be)  may  be  a  grand  success. 

In  a  couple  of  weeks  we  shall  go  to  Saratoga.  I  have 
never  been  there,  and  the  dry  air,  if  not  the  waters,  may 
benefit  us  all;  we  get  too  much  of  the  salt  here  and  at 
other  places  we  visit  during  the  summer.  We  are  hav- 
ing most  delightful  weather ;  some  days,  indeed,  are  too 
cool  for  comfort  in  our  thin  garments. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  20I 

The  play  of  "  Yorick  "  was  acted  here  at  Daly's,  and 
subsequently  offered  to  me.  It  failed,  while  it  was 
generally  praised,  and  I  did  not  like  the  translation  that 
was  sent  to  me.  I  should  think  Barrett  could  make  it 
go.    .    .    . 

I  am  not,  never  was,  nor  ever  expect  to  be,  at  Tom's 
River ;  there  now !  You  are  another  one  !  I  hope  the 
dear  little  old  lady  (ouch  !)  takes  her  usual  good  care  of 
the  pipes  and  thee,  and  that  you  are  both  happy  and 
hale  (I  mean  hearty)  as  ever,  and  that  your  knob  is  cozy, 
and  just  chuck  full  of  home — which  means  all  that  is 
good  and  comfortable.  Business  seems  to  be  dull  here- 
about, but  I  so  seldom  go  to  the  theatres  that  I  know 
little  less  than  nothing  of  'em.  Now  I  must  close  and 
run.  ...  A  bite,  and  a  jump  for  the  train,  and  away 
we  go.     Adieu. 

God  bless  you  both !     All  well,  and  send  love. 

Ted. 

P.  S.  Can't  find  your  address,  so  send  this  hap- 
hazard to  "  theatre,"  in  hopes  that  some  one  will  get  it 
and  deliver  it  to  you. 


to  david  c.  anderson. 

New  York,  Nov.  i6,  1879. 

You   DEAR   OLD   MONSTER  : 

Why  should  your  thoughts  be  scattered  between  New 
York  and  San  Francisco  ?  If  you  have  such  a  dear  little 
home,  as  I  hear  you  have,  stick  to  it,  and  be  joyful,  in 
spite  of  your  reduced  "  inkum " :  be  'appy.  "Enjoy 
the  present  hour,  nor  fear  the  last,"  etc.  Yes;  I  shall 
try  my  British  luck  once  more,  though  I  have  not  much 
faith  in  the  lottery  over  there;  but  if  I  win  I  shall,  as  you 
say,  stay  there  doubtless  a  long  time.    I  hope  so.     I  'd 


202  EDWIN    BOOTH 

dearly  like  to  have  you   two  old  fellows  with  us,  in  our 

rambles — if  wc  do  ramble.     .    .    . 

I   am  jamming  the  Grand  Opera  House  every  night 

with    "llamlot,"    and     may    run     it    through    the    four 

weeks.      It  seems  like  the  old  Booth  Theatre  days;  but 

of  course,  at  the  prices,  there  is  not  so  much  money  as 

then.     God  bless  you  !  Ever  yours, 

Ted. 


TO    DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

New  York,  Dec.  lo,  1879. 
Dear  Davy  : 

Imagine  "  Ted  "  the  pa  of  an  eighteen-year-old  darter. 
Whew !  she  did  it  yesterday,  the  ninth. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  's  your  or  my  turn  to  write, 
but  as  I  want  a  favor  done  I  '11  waive  ceremony.    .    .    . 

I  'vc  had  a  head  engraved,  and  I  think  it  ex- 
cellent. You  must  have  a  copy,  but  how  to  send  it 
without  injury  I  know  not.  The  engraving  was  for 
some  dramatic  memorial  work,  but  I  bought  it  after 
letting  them  have  an  electrotype  copy  of  the  plate.  I 
hope  you  are  still  comfortable  and  contented, — calm  and 
'appy  ;  stay  so  !  I  have  just  closed  a  terrific  engagement 
at  the  Opera  House,  and  though  the  prices  were  less 
than  on  Broadway,  etc.,  I  received  my  usual  share  of 
plunder.  The  very  best  class  of  folks  went  there  every 
night,  while  a  "lower  layer" — which  I  have  never 
reached  before  — were  there  also  in  herds  ;  could  have 
filled  the  house  two  weeks  longer. 

In  June  next  I  expect,  and  hope,  to  sail  on  the 
Gallia  for  England.  What  will  be  the  result  ?  .  .  . 
We  are  having  a  perfect  fool  of  a  winter;  't  would  just 
suit  your  California  notions  of  a  "  glorious  climate  " — 
warm  and  springlike,  with  only  an  occasional  dull,  damp 


LETTERS    TO    HIS   FRIENDS  203 

day.      Give   me  the   good    old-time   snow-clad  bufter 

that  used  to  make  us  wrap  up  close,  and  shiver  "  round 
the  hearth."  But  I  forget  my  "  i8th  daughter."  I  'm 
getting  old  and  "  sere-y,"  and  perhaps  I  should  not 
care  to  have  it  too  cold  —  as  once  I  did.  My  health, 
however,  is  far  better  than  it  was.  Dyspepsia  no 
longer  troubles  me  (maybe  I  *11  have  it  now  for  brag- 
ging), and  I  have — comparatively — but  very  few  aches. 
.  .  .  Do  not  think  the  shows  are  doing  extra  well,  but 
know  very  little  of  them.  Went  last  night  to  the  Union 
Square — poor  house,  although  the  papers  speak  of  the 
crowds,  etc.  ...  I  shall  loaf  now  till  March,  then 
go  to  Boston,  and  then  to  Booth's  for  a  farewell  pop. 
Shall  I  meet  you  on  the  Rhine? — Bingen? — or — or 
Bier  ?  Zwei.  .  .  .  Give  our  united  loves  to  the  guid 
wife  and  her  Davy.  I  have  nothing  of  interest  for 
you,  else  I  'd  write  a  while  longer,  but  I  'm  empty,  and 
dinner  is  in  the  air — I  schmelle  um  !  Myum  !  yum! 
Think  of  me  in  your  prayers,  if  you  ever  remember  to 
be  holy,  and  write  at  length  and  often.     I  am  kept  pretty 

busy   answering  's    offers    for    the    Frisco    theatre. 

Adieu.  Yours  ever, 

Ted. 

TO   DAVID  C.  ANDERSON. 

New  York,  Feb.  14,  1880. 

"  Good  morrow;  't  is  St.  Valentine's  day,"  with  all  the 
ct  cetera,  my  Davy  !  'Oos  a'  wi'  ye  ?  Arc  you  up  to 
your  ears  in  overcoats  ?  We  ain't !  Warmisli  and 
wet  to-day,  after  a  heavenly  week  of  weather.  Our 
winters  are  milder  than  your  barbarous  spring  tides  on 
the  slope.  I  forget  if  I  told  you  T  would  send,  or  had 
sent,  a  portrait-engraving  of  my  'cd  —  Ed's  'cd.  Did  I? 
At  all  events,  I  ordered  one  boxed  and  mailed  to  Knob 


204 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


Hill,  aiul  the  framcr  says  its  receipt  was  acknowledged, 
so  I  suppose  you  have  got  it.  Have  you  written  me 
since  ?  I  forget.  My  brain  's  all  of  a  buzz,  and  has 
been  so  for  weeks.  There  was  no  glass  sent  with  the 
frame,  for  fear  of  breakage,  but  that  you  can  carbine 
from  one  of  >our  kitchen  windows — when  the  old 
'ooman  's  gone  to  market.  Bye-the-bye,  boy,  who  does 
the  huckstering  ?  Do  yon  go,  and  have  you  regular 
kidney  feasts  ?  Dost  recommember  how,  in  the  hoary 
days  of  yore,  we  used  to  set  our  special  days  for  a 
regular  square  meal  of  kidneys  ?  "Ah,  the  merry  days 
of  youth!  what  a  sin  you  could  not  stay!"  etc.,  etc. 
...  I  see  that  Kearney  has  driven  all  the  big  guns 
from  Frisco,  and  that  all  the  wealthy  ones  are  coming  to 
settle  here.  You  'd  better  pull  up  stakes  again ;  but 
wait  till  I  get  back  from  Europe.  I  have  secured  three 
passages  by  the  Gallia  for  June  30;  so,  if  nothing  pre- 
vents, away  we  go  across  the  blue  and  briny  wet.     .    .    . 

The  theatres  are  all  doing  well,  and  Mackaye,^  at  the 
Madison  Square, —  Daly's  old  shop  on  24th  street, —  is 
successful,  as  he  deserves  to  be,  for  a  more  beautiful 
theatre  in  every  detail  was  never  built.  It  is  unlike  all 
other  theatres  in  every  respect,  and  is  supremely  artistic 
and  beautiful.  I  wish  you  could  see  it,  and  I  wish  I  had 
one  like  it — about  double  its  size.  .  .  .  Lunch  is  just 
announced  and  I  am  hungry.     Wail-ah  !-!-!-!-! 

Feel  better  now.  I  suppose  the  good  theatrical  days 
of  California  are  of  the  bygone  memories  now.  I  have 
sent  a  standing  "  No  "  to  several  agents  who  have  pes- 
tered me  with  offers  from  Frisco  managers.  I  may 
make  a  fly  thither  after  I  get  back  from  Europe, 
Irving  has  scored  another  grand  ten-strike  with  "  Shy- 
lock  "  ;  gave  a  banquet  on  the  stage  under  a  gorgeous 
awning  to  many  nobby  guests  last  night,  in  honor  of  its 

1  The  late  Steele  Mackaye. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  205 

hundredth  night ;  but  maybe  I  may  get  an  English  pat 
on  the  back  while  there.  I  expect  but  little,  scarce 
anything,  and  will  not  be  grievously  disappointed,  as 
I  fear  my  friends  will  be.  I  believe  there  'd  be  a  bet- 
ter show  for  me  in  Germany ;  p'raps  I  '11  try  the  Bin- 
gen.^  Now,  if  you  were  there  (on  the  Rhine)  you  might 
manage  for  me.  I  'm  not  vastly  posted  on  theatrical 
matters,  and  I  suspect  you  care  little  for  such  chat ; 
besides,  the  papers  keep  you  advised  of  all  that  is  going 
on.  .  .  .  Mother  and  Rose  are  about  as  usual  —  at 
the  Grand  Central  Hotel,  where  the  Winter  Garden  was. 
.  .  .  Because  I  choose  to  "loaf  and  invite  my  soul" 
this  season  for  needed  rest  in  preference  to  working  for 
Avealth,  which  I  don't  want,  the  papers  occasionally  fling 
at  me  that  illness  and  failing  powers,  etc.,  prevent  my 
filling  engagements.  When  I  played  the  greatest  engage- 
ment yet  known  at  the  Opera  House  they  said  I  was  on 

my  last  legs,  and  was  doing  fairly,  etc.     Now is  there, 

and  they  all  call  him  a  grand  success,  and  commend  his 
acting  at  such  house  ;  so  the  world  wags.  Is  n't  it  jolly  ? 
But,  bosh  !  it  does  n't  touch  me  in  the  least ;  I  men- 
tioned it  to  you  merely  to  vent  a  growl  for  you  to 
lecture  on.  Bless  thee,  Davy,  and  thy  good  dame!  All 
our  loves  to  you  both.  Live  long  and  merrily.  Would 
I  were  as  young  as  ye  !     Selah  ! 

Ted. 

'  The  frequent  humorous  allusions  to  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  have  reference  to 
the  poem  of  that  name  which  Mr.  Anderson  recited  in  his  younger  days  with 
much  dramatic  effect,  and  under  happy  circumstances  known  to  my  father  and 
himself  when  together  in  California. 


2o6  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO   OLE   BULL. 

New  Y(1KK,  68  Madison  Ave.,  Feb.  19,  1880. 

Mv  DEAR  Mr.  Bull: 

Is  it  at  all  probable  that  you  will  be  in  this  city  on  the 
fourtli  of  March  ? 

I  intend  to  give  a  benefit  for  the  Irish  sufferers  on  that 
date  at  the  Academy  of  Music,  and  your  name  would  be 
a  "  tower  of  strength  "  for  the  good  cause. 

If  it  should  be  a  serious  inconvenience  (as  to  come 
here  expressly  for  that  purpose  would  be),  pray  do  not 
hesitate  to  deny  me,  for  I  fully  appreciate  the  distress 
caused  by  innumerable  demands  of  this  kind  that  you 
are  subjected  to, —  I  have  my  share  of  them, —  but  if 
by  any  good  chance  you  should  be  here,  and  would 
place  your  name  on  my  programme,  I  will  owe  you  a 
double  debt  of  gratitude — bearing  still  fresh  in  my 
memory  a  similar  kindness  you  once  favored  me  with, 

Edwin  Booth. 

TO   DAVID   C.   ANDERSON. 

March  20,  1880. 
My  derned  OLD  Sandlotter: 

How  d'  ye  ?  Have  the  Wigilantes  moved  your  Knob 
yet?  We  have  been  wondering  and  worrying  about 
you,  Davy,  all  the  while  that  Reverend  Kearney  and 
Dennis  Kalloch  have  been  shaking  their  fists  against 
your  aristocratic  mansion  on  the  Hill,  and  expecting  to 
hear  of  y'  sudden  reappearance  on  Broadway.  To-day 
I  closed  my  second  week  of  a  terrific  engagement  here. 
I  regret  it  is  only  for  three ;  it  could  run  on  to  jammed 
houses  for  several  more.  I  believe  the  box-office  is  to 
be   s/iut  because  there  is  nothing  left  to  sell   for  next 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  207 

week  —  something  unprecedented.  I  go  next  to  Booth's 
(my  old  shop).  Your  reply  to  this  had  better  be  directed 
there,  where  I  shall  remain  four  weeks.  I  am  glad  to 
hear  that  peace  is  restored  in  Frisco.  .  .  .  This  has 
been  a  good  lesson  to  those  fellows ;  there  '11  be  no 
more  nihilism  in  Frisco.  So  you  may  sleep  in  peace. 
We  have  been  having  a  great  deal  of  domestic  "  so- 
cialism "  here,  in  the  way  of  teas  and  calls  and  visits. 
Daughter  is  in  great  demand,  and  the  result  has  been 
a  perfect  flurry  of  agreeable  excitement  for  her.  While 
I  am  acting  I  have  excitement  of  a  different  quality,  and 
plenty  of  it.  I  think  I  told  you  that  we  expect  to  sail 
by  the  Gallia  on  June  30.  .  ,  ,  Barrett,  Florence, 
Rankin,  Raymond,  Harkins,  Mayo,  and  God  knows 
who  not,  are  all  going  to  Europe  next  spring !  We  '11 
Americanize  the  "koknees"  yet.  My  hopes  are  more  for 
health  and  recreation  there  than  for  professional  suc- 
cess, though  I  am  not  at  all  indifferent  to  that,  either; 
but  I  regard  it  as  a  secondary  matter,    .    .    , 

Let  me  hear  from  you  soon  —  if  Kearney  has  n't  Kal- 
locked  you,     "  K.  K." — ominous  letters.     Ink  's  out. 

Ted.    . 


New  York,  68  Madison  Ave.,  March  29,  1880. 

My  dear  Mr.  Bull  : 

Let  me  bore  you  once  more.  I  promise  you  it  shall  be 
the  last  time — till  we  meet  atTyso.' 

If  you  have  not  already  written  your  autograph  on  the 
page  that  my  wife  left  with  Mrs.  Bull,  will  you  not  give 
a  verse  or  sentiment  in  your  "  birth  "  tongue,  say  from 
some  old  Norse  saga,  in  addition  to  the  bar  of  music  she 
asked  for  ? 

1  The   late  Mr.  Die  Bull's  estate  in  Norway,  an  invitation  to  which  he  had 
kindly  extended  to  my  father. 


2oS  EDWIN   BOOTH 

Now,  thou,  I  'vc  done.  Break  your  fiddlestick  (but 
not  the  niayjic  one  with  its  jeweled  end)  over  my  head. 
T  will  serve  me  right  for  pestering  you  so  much. 

W'c  are  not  at  all  glad  to  be  home  again,  for  you 
Cambridge  and  Boston  folks  treated  us  so  well  that  we 
miss  yi>u  \er}'  much. 

lulwina  joins  mc  in  the  very  kindest  regards  to  Mrs. 
IhiU  and  yourself  Sincerely  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO   WILLIAM    BISPHAM. 

New  York,  April  lo,  1880. 
Dear  Will  : 

We  are  here,  but  hardly  settled  yet.  The  confusion 
of  moving,  while  acting,  has  stupefied  me  quite.  Hope 
soon  to  see  you. 

What  night  would  you  like  to  visit  the  play  ?  Let  me 
know  a  day  or  so  in  advance,  that  I  may  secure  you  good 
seats. 

If  my  great-grandpa  made  a  small  spoon^  (as  my  mo- 
ther says  my  grandfather  asserted),  he  —  the  elder — was 
at  least  fifty-nine  years  old  when  the  latter  was  born.  It 
might  have  been.  Sorry  the  stamps  on  the  large  spoon 
are  not  decipherable.  My  sister  has  the  debris  of  a  small 
one,  on  which  are  a  lion,  a  head, —  as  of  one  of  the 
Georges,  resembling  those  on  old  coins, — and  two  letters, 
either  B.  C.  or  B.  O.,  as  nearly  as  I  can  make  them  out. 
But  I  am  not  so  spoony  as  to  care  much  about  'em  either 
way,  or  really  if  I  ever  had  any  great-grandparents.  It  's 
bad  enough  to  know  that  I  am  here,  howe'er  I  came.  .  .  . 

1  My  father's  great-grandfather  was  a  silversmith.  The  spoon  niy  father  speaks 
of  is  now  in  my  possession,  a  wedding-gift  from  my  grandmotiier  Booth.  It 
bears  the  marks  of  my  father's  baby  teeth,  it  having  been  his  favorite  pap-spoon 
when  a  child. 


EDWIN    HOOTH    AS    "  KICHAKK    III. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  209 

TO   DAVID   C.    ANDERSON. 

New  York,  April  25,  1880. 
My  DEAR  Davy: 

I  have  just  closed  my  last  engagement  in  New  York 
before  departure ;  but  I  have  a  week  yet  in  Brooklyn  — 
then  pack  up.  Business  has  been  splendid.  I  made  no 
use  of  my  "  farewell,"  or  it  would  have  been  still  splcn- 
dider.  During  the  play,  one  night  last  week,  M.  came 
suddenly  to  me,  and  asked  if  I  had  heard  of  "  Uncle 
Davy's  death."  By  Jove!  it  staggered  me  !  But  know- 
ing that  if  any  such  calamity  had  occurred,  I  would  be 
one  of  the  first  to  know  it,  I  held  myself  together ;  several 
days  past,  no  one  else,  save  an  actor  or  two,  had  heard 
such  a  rumor,  and  I  felt  relieved.  It  's  not  so,  is  it  ? 
By  Jove  !  old  fellow,  if  you  are  gone  I  know  you  are  high 
up  in  heaven  with  the  good  ones ;  but  we  can't  afford  to 
"  let  you  up  "  yet.  The  news  of  Younge's  death  sets  us 
all  agog  for  more  outrages  in  Frisco,  and  I  dare  say  you 
are  sick  of  "sich."  I  certainly  would  pull  up  stakes  and 
come  to  a  civilized  place  and  root  for  aye.  We  are  cozily 
settled  in  this  hotel,  overlooking  Madison  Square.  The 
view  is  lovely,  with  the  budding  trees  and  young  grass 
springing.  Not  like  your  dusty  brown  old  San  Francisco. 
.  .  .  Mary  has  been  very  ill  for  some  months  past,  and  I 
am  very  anxious  to  have  her  o'er  the  sea,  'mid  fresh  scenes 
and  pastures  new,  etc.  Edwina  continues  well,  and  I  so- 
soish ;  a  heavy  cold  and  weariness  oppress  me,  nothing 
more.  .  .  .  Good  night,  old  boy  and  gal.  Hope  I  '11 
see  you  both  happily  settled  here  before  I  sail.     God 

bless  you  both  ! 

Ever  yours,  Ted. 


2  10  EDWIN   BOOTH 

New  York,  May  13,  1880. 

J\IV    DEAR    YOUNG    AND    LIVE   DAVY  : 

So  you  ain't  dead  yet!  Well,  well,  well!  I  thought 
not,  for  the  papers  did  n't  say  so,  and  you  know  they 
cannot  hatchet,  though  they  do  hatch  many  things  what 
aifi't.  So,  so;  an'  you  're  still  a-livin'  —  Sho  !  7\.le  B.  C. 
—  D.  C.  I  mean ;  forgive  the  slip.  You  remember,  may- 
be, there  's  many  atwix  the  jug  and  the  lip,  don't  it  ? 
How  's  Dennis  ?  What  's  a  K(a-l-)lock,  too  ?  They  're 
skeerin'  you  hitherwards  again,  eh  ?  Well,  it  's  the  best 
word  —  any  word  in  this  town  is  better  than  Knob  Hill  at 
this  "junktcr." 

Hope  you  will  be  here  before  we  sail,  June  30.  I  know 
no  more  of  the  testimonial  than  you  do.  It  may  not  be; 
I  care  not.    .    .    . 

As  to  your  acting  again,  you  know  when  you  were  here 
I  advised  you  to  stay  and  get  into  one  of  the  theatres 
here.  You  require  some  occupation,  with  your  active 
brain  and  body,  to  steady  you.  Take  an  old  hound's 
advice,  and  keep  close  with  the  pack.  Tally-ho  !  Yoick's  ! 
etc.  Keep  in  full  cry  till  the  last  horn  calls  to  quarry, 
and  a  whipper-in  sends  you  to  kennel.  Don't  dismount 
till  you  're  in  at  the  death.  Tara-ta-ta-ta !  Mary  is 
about  the  same.  Edwina  and  I  are  wellish.  Love  to 
both.  Ted. 

TO   DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

Dublin,  July  15,  1880. 
Dear  Davy: 

Arrah  Galoo!  Hooroo  !  mabokalush  faleen  sockdaler- 
gerwhack,  me  bye ! 

I  'm  on  the  sod,  wid  a  dudeen  o'  the  rale  ould  bog- 
wood  in  me  jaw,  acushla  !      One  week  ago  to-night  I  left 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  211 

the  ship  at  Quanestown,  and  have  been  to  Cork  and  Kil- 
larney  in  a  fog,  then  spent  a  fine  day  in  the  cars,  and 
reached  here  in  the  same  old  fog  and  rain,  bad  luck  to  't! 

Did  yez  iver  come  here  ?  Don't !  I  did,  but  I  won't 
again,  mavourneen.  Saving  the  antiquities  and  the  foul 
weather,  we  can  bate  'em  in  Yankeedom.  Lakes  and 
hills  and  all  the  beautiful  scenery  and  sights  they  boast  of 
are  'way  behind  us,  so  they  are. 

Anent  ancientiquities,  I  am  writin'  wid  a  pen  that  's 
mightier  than  the  swoord  —  videlicet — a  quill,  from  an 
old  goose,  or  a  hin,  or  else  a  fowl  of  some  kind.  A  plume 
o'  the  weather,  maybe  ;  that  's  fowl  enough. 

Three  days  here,  and  to-morrow  we  're  off  for  Belfast, 
stopping  en  route  at  several  points  of  interest.  Shall  not 
reach  London  till  latter  part  of  August.  Have  had  two 
offers  from  there,  but  not  being  what  I  want,  I  shall  wait. 
Find  friends  and  acquaintances  everywhere ;  no  trouble 
or  inconvenience  yet.  Had  a  sort  of  canal-like  voyage ; 
no  sea  whatever.  So  far  the  trip  has  done  us  all  good. 
Don't  want  to  think  of  theatre ;  won't  till  my  cash  runs 
low.  After  a  day  or  two  at  Belfast  shall  go  to  Glasgow, 
and  see  a  little  of  Scotland,  before  going  to  England  and 
Wales.  After  a  week  or  so  in  London,  go  to  the  Conti- 
nent. This  day  one  month  ago  I  was  breakfasted  in  New 
York.  It  seems  but  day  before  yesterday.  Poor  mother 
is  very  sad  and  lonely  now ;  I  know  that  she  misses  me 
very  much.  God  bless  her  !  Wish  you  were  here  with 
me.  Had  a  "jaunt  in  a  jolting-car"  to-day,  from  a  place 
called  Kingstown.  Not  any  more  in  mine,  I  thank  you. 
I  like  a  trotter,  when  I  sit  astride  him,  but  a  sidewise 
bump  up  and  down  for  an  hour  ain't  handsome,  not  at  all, 
sir!  How  doth  your  bonne  dame  (no;  that  's  not  Irish) 
—  how  's  de  owld  'ooman  ?  An'  how  's  ycrscl',  nic  dar- 
lint  ?  I  '11  write  ye  Scotch  next  toimc,  maybe.  All  our 
loves  to  yees,  all  of  yees. 


2  I  2  EDWIN   BOOTH 

McCuUoui^h  has  secured  the  spring  months  at  Drury 
Lane ;  got  ahead  of  me  there.  Irving  keeps  his  place, 
and  the  only  other  tragedy-shop  has  lost  caste  of  late  ;  so 
I  'm  in  the  cold,  as  before.  Clarke  would  let  me  in  at 
the  Ilaymarket,  but  I've  been  there  onct  before,  ye  know. 

Good  night,  Davy.  May  the  good  God  bless  you  and 
yours  !     Write  me  soon. 

Ever  yours,  Ted. 

TO    E.    C.    STEDMAN. 

London,  September  4,  1880. 
My  dear  Stedman  : 

My  intention  was  to  wait  until  I  saw  Smalley  before 
writing  to  you ;  but  it  seems  so  far  away  before  that 
event  is  likely  to  occur,  and  so  very  long  since  I  promised 
to  write,  that  I  can  hold  no  further  restraint  on  my  desire 
to  chat,  if  only  a  few  words  with  you.  After  a  delightful, 
though  rather  fatiguing  tour  through  Ireland,  Scotland, 
and  Wales,  I  came  suddenly  to  London  to  settle  the  en- 
gagement with  Manager  G.,  of  which  you  have  by  this 
time  read  something  in  the  papers,  and  to  prepare  for 
our  visit  to  Ammergau,  whither  we  go  on  Monday  next. 
We  have  been  so  busy  and  unsettled  here  that  we  con- 
cluded to  keep  "  incog.,"  and  see  no  one;  therefore  I  have 
not  sought  out  Smalley,  on  whom  I  hope  to  call  before  I 
see  any  others  whom  I  hope  to  meet.  I  shall  be  per- 
manently settled  at  the  St.  James  Hotel,  October  i,  for 
at  least  three  months.  Well,  as  to  the  engagement. 
Before  I  landed  I  had  telegraphic  offers  to  act,  but  I  held 
off  .  .  .  besides  I  have  resolved  to  wait  until  the 
spring;  but  as  I  found  that  time  at  Drury  Lane  was 
promised  to  McCullough,  and  Irving  preparing  a  new 
production,  I  accepted  the  offer  made  by  G.  to  open  his 
theatre,  which   is  now  a  mass  of  ruins,  in  October,  re- 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  213 

modeled  and  renovated  in  every  respect.  So  it  stands. 
From  all  I  hear,  expectation  is  a-tiptoe,  and  we  shall  see 
what  we  shall  see  in  a  few  short  weeks  from  date.  The 
company  engaged  for  me  is  said  to  be  an  unusually 
strong  one.  They  are  all  strange  to  me,  and  I  must,  of 
course,  be  guided  by  what  others'  say ;  all  agree  as  to  its 
superiority.  As  Irving  is  blamed  here,  as  I  am  at  home, 
for  having  (with  the  Terry  exception)  a  company  of 
sticks,  I  presume  I  shall  be  credited  with  at  least  the 
desire  to  serve  the  Shaksperian  cause,  even  if  I  fail  in 
other  respects.  It  is  so  very  warm  here  that  the  the- 
atres are  nearly  empty,  and  't  is  an  effort  to  sit  quietly 
here  with  you  ;  I  'm  all  sticky,  fidgety,  and  "  sich,"  but, 
blessed  be  Allah  !  there  are  no  flies  and  no  mosquitos. 
I  passed  nine  months  in  a  fog  here  many  years  ago,  and 
of  course  saw  nothing  of  London  but  her  mud  and 
melancholy ;  they  have  now  a  full-sized  sun,  which  has 
been  blazing  at  us  all  the  week,  and  I  agree  with  you 
and  Winter  that  London  is  a  delightful  city ;  I  never 
thought  so  till  now.  .  .  .  Well,  bye-bye.  Mrs. 
Booth's  cough  has  been  the  only  interruption  to  our 
entire  enjoyment;  she  is  otherwise  very  well,  my  daugh- 
ter ditto,  while  I  am  about  the  same  as  I  have  been  for 
the  year  past  —  very  well,  I  thank  you.  Remember  us  to 
wife,  sons,  daughter,  and  daddy.  Will  write  you  when  I 
have  seen  Smalley.     Adieu.  Ever  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 

TO    E.  C.  STEDMAN. 

London,  Nov.  13,  1880. 
My  dear  Stedman  : 

I  've  been  and  gone  and  done  it !  The  cable  has  told 
you  all  about  it.  I  can  but  add  that  the  feeling  for  mc 
is  warming  every  day,  and  the  faint  praises  lavished  by 


2  1  4  EDWIN    BOOTH 

the  press  have  tciulcd  rather  to  increase  than  to  dimin- 
ish the  interest.  Imoui  various  high  places  I  have  kindly 
wortls  of  i;reat  encouragement,  and  the  vista  looks  lovely. 
After  the  programme  is  changed  ("Hamlet"  is  so  hack- 
ne}-e(.l  !),  there  will  also  be  a  change  of  tone  in  the  the- 
atrical columns  of  the  papers.  The  few  attempts  at 
criticism  I  have  seen  are  very  feeble  and  wishy-washy. 
Shakspere  is  yet  a  sealed  book  to  those  who  sit  in 
judgment  on  the  actor.  ,  .  .  Smalley  was  in  Scotland 
my  first  night,  but  promised  to  see  me  last  evening. 
The  stalls  I  gave  him  were  vacant,  and  I  fear  he  was  pre- 
vented from  going  to  the  theatre,  which  he  wished  to  do, 
in  order  to  send  his  letter  to  N.  Y.  to-day.  The  weather 
has  been  propitious,  and  despite  a  troublesome  liver  and 
domestic  cares  (my  wife  being  still  an  invalid),  I  am  in 
pretty  good  "fighting  trim."  But  I  could  not  act  Ham- 
let the  first  night.  All  was  confusion  and  anxiety.  A 
new  theatre,  a  new  company  (all,  however,  very  kindly 
disposed),  a  rather  chilling  audience,  despite  their  gener- 
ous reception  of  me.  .  .  .  You  may  judge  how  unlike 
Hamlet  I  was  on  that  occasion.  But  I  made  a  mark 
that  is  becoming  deeper  with  every  performance,  and 
when  I  write  you  next  I  am  confident  that  I  shall  be 
justified  in  saying,  "  I  am  safe !  " 

Smalley  is  very  good.     I  dined  with  him  one  Sunday, 
and  met  Huxley,  Lady  Gordon,  and  several  other  notables. 

Kind  remembrances  to  your  dear  ones. 

Ever  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    DAVID    C.  ANDERSON. 

London,  Nov.  14,  1880. 
Dear  Davy: 

I   went  in,  head  first,  as  Hamlet  last  Saturday  night. 
Since  when  the  myriad    English   papers  have  been  full 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  215 

of  me — all,  with  but  a  few  exceptions,  patting  me 
on  the  back  and  endeavoring  to  damn  me  with  faint 
praise.  But  the  public  is  with  me,  and  I  received  many- 
cordial  congratulations  from  high-jink  nobs  of  Britain. 
As  we  used  to  say  in  the  classic  days,  "  Ye  goose  'angs 
'igh,"  etc.,  and  in  a  few  weeks  I  shall  have  had  even  the 
"crickets"  chirping  pleasantly.  I  dare  say  the  cable  has 
told  you,  long  ere  this,  of  my  success — ox  failure,  for  it 
is  a  toss-up  how  it  has  been  reported ;  variously,  I  pre- 
sume. Set  it  down  as  satisfactory,  at  all  events.  I  had 
to  abandon  my  Continental  tour  because  I  saw  no  possi- 
ble opening  here  for  me  in  the  spring,  and  this  theatre 
seemed  to  be  preparing  for  me  especially.  'T  is  a  very 
fine  one,  entirely  new ;  not  the  best  in  London,  though. 
The  Haymarket  is  by  far  the  very  best  in  London 
now ;  you  would  not  know  it  in  its  new  shape  and  dress. 
You  must  write  often  to  me,  and  not  wait  for  letters  from 
me,  for  I  am  just  run  to  earth  by  the  many  cares  and 
bothers  that  absorb  all  my  time.    .    .    .    No  news.     Love 

to  you  both.  Ever  yours, 

Ted. 

TO   DAVID  C.  ANDERSON. 

London,  December  17,  1880. 
My  DEAR  Davy  : 

Since  my  debut  here  I  have  received  congratulatory 
letters  and  telegraphic  greetings  from  various  parts  of  the 
world,  but  not  a  line  from  thee.  Now,  this  is  not  meant 
reproachfully,  for  I  know  there  is  not  a  heart  that  throbs 
on  earth  that  doth  more  rejoice  at  my  success  than  thine, 
my  Davy  C,  but,  nevertheless,  would  I  be  happier  to 
have  had  a  line  of  greeting  to  that  effect.  You  would  be 
surprised  and  pleased  as  well  to  know  that  actors  of  every 
rank  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  have  sent  me  letters 
of  congratulation,  and  those  about  me  have  been  ciUliii- 


2l6  EDWIN    BOOTH 

siastic  and  kiiul  to  excess.  John  Ryder — with  tears — 
declares  that  1  have  toppled  his  idol  (Macready)  to  the 
ground,  and  is  as  anxious  of  my  success  as  a  father  may 
be — a^  you  are;  not  the  least  sign  of  unkindness  from 
any  !  My  intention  was  to  change  the  bill  every  two 
weeks,  and  so  I  took  off  "  Hamlet  "  against  the  advice  of 
every  one  but  the  paper-critics,  who  endeavor  to  damn 
me  with  faint  praise,  and  brought  on  "  Richelieu," 
which  started  even  the  "  puffers,"  though  some  of  them 
still  fail  to  see  in  me  more  than  mediocrity.  But  the 
public  is  with  me;  so  is  the  profession,  while  from  many 
high  and  nobby  sources  I  daily  receive  the  most  encour- 
aging marks  of  approval.  .  .  .  Titled  folks  that  stand 
very  near  the  throne  have  graced  my  dressing-room 
with  their  presence.  The  best  parts  of  the  house  have 
been  nightly  filled  with  noted  people,  but  the  pit  and 
gallery  are  not  so  well  patronized,  this  being  the  worst 
season  for  such  plays  as  I  am  giving  them.  I  Ve  been 
fortunate  in  weather,  very  few  fogs,  and  they  slight ;  the 
nights  are  really  beautiful  —  quite  American  in  quality. 
I  have  met  with  the  greatest  hospitality — very  like  that 
of  the  ante-bellum.  Southern  sort,  and  the  higher  the  host 
the  more  cordial  and  easy  the  welcome.  Irving  called 
over,  but  we  had  very  little  opportunity  to  chat.  I  have 
the  greatest  odds  to  battle  with  that  an  actor  ever  ex- 
perienced, in  spite  of  all  the  good  in  my  favor  that  I 
have  mentioned.  A  deep-rooted  love  for  their  idol,  who 
certainly  deserves  his  reward  for  what  he  has  achieved 
for  the  drama  here;  an  unpopular  theatre, —  that  is,  un- 
popular with  the  first-class  element ;  for  years  a  sort  of 
"Bowery,"  given  up  to  "Drink,"  "  Streets  of  London," 
etc., —  and  a  sort  of  "Cheap  John"  management,  with 
a  wretched  company,  and  poorly  furnished  stage,  com- 
pared with  Irving's  superior  settings.  Business  at  all 
the    houses    is    only    so-so;    't   is    what  we    would    call 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  21 7 

pretty  bad,  but  in   London  it  is  considered  fair,  if  not 
positively  good,    for    this    season.       My    engagement    is 
but  for  three  months,  which  terminate  February  6 ;  but 
the  chances  are  that  I  will  run  along  much  longer.      My 
health  is  good,  and  I  'm  in  pretty  fair  trim,  but  could 
do  better   if  I  changed  the    bill  oftener,  which  can't  be 
done  because  there  is  not  a  bit  of  stock  scenery  in  the 
house.     The  next  play  will  be  "  The  Fool's  Revenge,"  and 
then  "Macbeth."     I  have  acted  just  six  weeks  to-night. 
I  find  London  very  much  Americanized,  a  really  sensi- 
ble  set   of  people   now.     Twenty  years   ago   they  were 
very  provincial,  petty,  old-fogyish,  and  hard.      My  sister 
is    writing    sketches   of   father   and   myself,    to    be    pub- 
lished   by    Osgood    of    Boston,    and    while    going    over 
my  past  experiences  I  had  to  live  over  our  ranch  life, 
etc.    .    .    .    You    may  well   imagine  my  feelings  at  this 
late  day  —  taking  our  midnight  rides  to  "  Pipesville,"  and 
sailing  the  seas  toward  t'  other  side  o'   the  globe.   .   .   . 
My  wife  has  been  a  great  invalid  for  many  months,  and 
under  the  care  of  an  eminent  physician.  Dr.  Mackenzie, 
I  am  just  here  interrupted  by  an  "  interviewer."      Wait; 
he  's  gone.      A  charming  man,  Joseph   Hatton,  just  re- 
turned   from    America,    where   they   feted    him    royally, 
and  he  is  with  its  in  feeling,  as  indeed  are  a  great  many 
Englishmen    who    formerly   sneered   at  the  Yankees.     I 
found  this  kindly  feeling  throughout  my  tour  of  Ireland, 
Scotland,  and  England;  not  manifest  in  France;  of  Ger- 
manic feeling   I  could  not  judge,  but   I   know  they  are 
very  anxious  to  have  me  act  there.    Perhaps  I  shall  do  so. 
McCullough  is  to  produce  "  Virginius  "  at  Drury  Lane  in 
May,  and  of  course  will  have  all  the  papers  with  him  —  as 
elsewhere.    He  is  so  genial !     I  aint,  you  know.     John  's 
a  good  fellow,  and  I  wish  him  full  success.      I  am  going  to 
a  matinee  of  "Agamemnon"  in  Latin  (our  mother-tongue, 
hog-latin)  by  the  Oxford  students.      A  Greek  comedy  is 


2i8  EDWIN   BOOTH 

also  bein<T  played  by  the  Westminster  students  which 
they  say  is  remarkable ;  but  as  it  occurs  at  night,  I  can't 
attend.  I  see  the  "  Passion  Play  "  is  given  up,  much  to 
my  '^ratification.  I  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  Booth  being 
connected  with  it.  nor  do  I  think  (sinner  though  I  be — 
Peccavi!)  that  such  an  outrage  to  religious  sentiment 
should  be  tolerated.  I  did  not  approve  it  even  at  Ammer- 
gau,  where  the  superstition  of  those  bygone  people  seems 
to  be  an  excuse  for  it.  I  fancy  there  will  be  no  more 
plays  at  Oberammergau ;  the  impression  produced  gen- 
erally was  that  of  a  show,  nothing  more,  and  all  that 
has  been  written  of  its  awful  and  religious  effect  is  bosh, 
though  doubtless  sincerely  meant  by  emotional  and  in- 
experienced folks,  who  "  weep  like  Tom  Noddy  and  see 
poor  Laertes  run  through  the  body."  That  's  a  long- 
ago  rhyme  I  read   in  babyhood. 

Well,  old  padre,  'oos  a'  wi'  ye,  noo  ?  Brawly,  lad,  I 
hope.  Love  to  the  wife  an'  bairns,  all  of  'em,  and  their 
good  man  and  daddy.  Adieu,  with  the  good  Lord's 
blessing  for  the  Christmastide  and  wishes  for  many  a 
Happy  New  Year. 

From  your  old  Ted. 


TO   THE    REV.    DR.    EWER. 

London,  December  19,  1880. 
My  DEAR  EwER: 

So  dazed  have  I  been  of  late  that  I  really  forget  to 
whom  I  have  and  have  not  written.  At  all  events,  I  re- 
member that  you  were  among  the  first  on  my  long  list  of 
friends  with  whom  I  intended  to  shake  hands  after  my 
debut.  I  '11  take  it  for  granted  that  I  did  so  after  "  Ham- 
let " ;  if  not,  forgive  my  negligence.  Had  that  play  been 
kept  on,  it  would  doubtless  have  pulled  through  the  fog. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  219 

which  "  Richelieu"  dispelled  with  his  first  breath,  although 
many  of  the  so-called  critics  still  see  me  through  a  glass 
darkly,  and  sniff  their  learned  noses  knowingly.  All  goes 
well,  but  slowly.  I  did  not  expect  a  sunburst,  as  my 
friends  predicted,  nor  did  I  expect  such  kindness  from  the 
public,  nor  from  private  sources,  as  I  have  received. 

Your  water-cure,  hay-fever  letter  is  not  where  I  can 
put  my  hand  on  it  just  now  ('t  is  after  midnight),  and 
therefore,  without  reference  to  it,  I  may  be  repeating  what 
I  said  in  reply  to  it.  I  hope  you  have  entirely  got  rid  of 
that  vexation,  funny  as  it  appears  to  be  at  a  distance,  and 
that  good  health  will  attend  your  Christmas,  with  other 
blessings,  a  hundredfold.  For  the  first  time  since  child- 
hood my  sister  and  I  will  (D.  V.)  pass  that  day  together. 
I  wish  our  dear  old  mother  could  be  with  us.  What  a 
miserable  existence  is  the  actor's,  especially  if  he  is  do- 
mestically inclined  !  Home  is  something  denied  to  him. 
I  've  tried  to  fix  myself,  to  settle  down  a  dozen  times,  yet 
always  comes  some  stern  necessity  to  break  camp  and 
travel.  I  '  d  rather  be  at  home,  somewhere  in  America, 
quiet  and  secure  from  the  publicity  my  profession  brings^ 
than  be  here  feted  and  applauded,  and  tired  with  what  's 
called  fame.  Bosh  !  It  's  my  liver,  I  dare  say  ;  the  doc- 
tors tell  me  so.  I  suppose  I  'd  be  dissatisfied  with  any 
other  lot.  I  'm  a  chronic  growler,  I  fear.  You  may 
judge  by  this  that  I  'm  not  over-elated  by  my  success  here. 
If  I  had  a  "  pitful  of  kings  "  to  act  for,  I  should  not  be  so. 
Royalty  (unless  I  except  the  Duke  of  Connaught)  has  not 
yet  deigned  to  notice  my  efforts;  but  titled  nobs,  and 
several  citizens  of  high  standing,  have  shown  mc  great 
kindness.  To-day  we  met  at  dinner  the  poet  Robert 
Browning,  a  charming  man  ;  and  at  the  same  house,  on  a 
former  occasion,  Huxley.  The  Dowager  Marchioness  of 
Ely,  her  Majesty's  lady  in  waiting,  and  several  lesser  lights 
near  the  throne,  have  shone  serenely  on  my  Yankccship. 


220  EDWIN   BOOTH 

Now  is  ii't  this  enough  to  turn  one's  head  ?  Yet,  you  see, 
I  "vc  been  so  accustomed  to  the  purple  ;  with  kings  and 
cardinals  have  I  hobnobbed  so  famiHarly  since  my  boy- 
hood, that  I  'ni  accustomed  to  these  honors.    .    .    . 

I  'm  incHncil  to  think  the  Passion  Play  will  not  be  given 
at  Ammergau  again :  it  has  degenerated  into  a  mere 
show.  I  'ni  glad  I  saw  it,  although  at  the  time  I  was  disap- 
pointed. Would  not  look  at  it  again,  though  it  were  pre- 
sented within  easy  reach;  but  the  scene  of  its  performance 

Ammergau  —  is  worth  a  dozen  visits,  though  so  out  of 

the  way  and  uncomfortable. 

This  is  about  the  stupidest  letter  that  ever  school-boy 
scribbled,  and  if  you  were  not  a  holy  man  I  'd  cuss  it  with 
a  big,  big  "  D,"  and  burn  it;  but  I  know  my  next  attempt 
would  be  no  better,  perhaps  worse,  and  you  sha'n't  say 
"Ted  has  forgotten  his  promise  to  write  me." 

Edwina  and  I  send  loving  remembrances. 

Ever  yours,  Ted. 

TO    E.    C.    STEDMAN. 

Piccadilly,  London,  December  24,  1880. 

My  dear  Stedman: 

I  know  how  "  run  to  earth"  you  are,  and  therefore  do 
not  expect  you  to  write  me  very  often.  I  know  what 
you  feel  for  me,  and  shall  be  more  than  satisfied  if  I  get 
but  a  line  of  greeting  only  when  you  wish  to  try  a  new 
pen.  It  was  very  good  of  you,  my  dear  boy,  to  write 
me,  tired  and  busy  as  you  are,  and  I  cordially  appreciate 
it.  Yes,  "  Richelieu  "  has  warmed  them  up  ;  but  I  believe 
the  houses  would  have  been  quite  as  full  if  I  had  kept 
"Hamlet"  on  the  bills.  There  is  little  change  in  that 
respect.  The  enthusiasm  is  greater,  of  course,  for  the 
theatrical    situations    of  the  former   play  compel    it.     I 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  22  1 

hardly  think  the  critics  have  shown  me  a  kindly  spirit, 
but  they  are  very  provincial  and  "  little  "  in  their  views 
of  art  matters,  and  this  prejudice  is  not  confined  to  theat- 
rical art,  either.  Outside  of  the  press,  however,  I  have 
had  all  that  one's  heart  could  desire  in  the  way  of  cour- 
tesy and  encouragement.  To-night  I  finish  "  Richelieu," 
and  rest  till  Monday  (boxing)  night,  when  the  "  Fool " 
will  appear  —  not  in  a  pantomime,  as  at  other  theatres, 
though.  The  Smalleys  have  been  very  kind ;  dined 
there  twice.    .    .    . 

H.  R.  H.  Leopold  saw  the  play  t'  other  night,  and 
sent  for  my  photo  through  Lady  Ely,  the  Queen's  lady- 
in-waiting,  who  has  been  very  gracious  to  us.    .    .    . 

Your  friend,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO   DAVID   C.  ANDERSON. 

London,  Jan.  9,  1881. 
My  Davy  dear  : 

Some  one  writ  o'  the  top  o'  your  letter,  "  Can't  you 
give  us  a  little  more  in  your  epistles  to  Dave  ?  "  I  don't 
know  who,  but  there  it  is ;  and  that  is  why  I  write  you 
again  so  soon,  because  I  can't  give  more  than  I  do :  I 
give  a  little  often.  Published  accounts,  even  friendly 
ones,  give  no  true  notion  of  how  matters  stand.  My 
success  with  the  public,  and  with  the  brains  of  England, 
was  assured  from  the  very  first  scene  of  my  first  night, 
and  Hamlet  drew  as  well  as  anything  I  have  since  done  ; 
the  applause  was  as  great  as  ever  I  received  in  the  part 
anywhere,  and  the  play  would  have  run  for  several  weeks 
had  I  chosen  to  keep  it  on  ;  but  my  wish  was  to  change 
as  often  as  possible,  to  do  as  many  parts  as  I  could,  in 
the  few  months  of  my  engagement.  .  .  .  Dollars  are 
not  plentiful,  though  the  houses  are  full.    What  is  termed 


22  2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

threat  business  here  we  at  home  would  consider  small ; 
but  as  I  ilid  not  come  for  dollars,  and  expected  a  harder 
fight  against  jircjudice  than  I  have  had,  I  am  quite  sat- 
isfied, particularly  as  I  find  the  impression  I  have  made 
is  deepening  and  daily  growing  stronger.  No ;  there  is 
no  prejudice  here  worth  noticing.  Among  the  very  best 
we  have  met  a  most  cordial  welcome  —  no  stiffness,  and  so 
little  formality  that  we  are  rather  more  at  ease  than  with 
folks  of  the  same  class  at  home;  while  with  the  "  middle- 
men "  and  the  lower  classes  I  have  found  nothing  but 
kindly  feeling.  I  guess  they  have  a  wholesome  respect 
for  the  Yankee  nowadays.  .  .  .  My  pronunciation 
and  enunciation  have  amazed  the  English,  yet  cultivated 
Americans  frequently  criticize  me.  Irving  has  lately 
been  very  genial  and  attentive ;  he  is  a  pleasant  fellow. 
Yesterday  he  called,  and  we  had  a  pleasant  hour  to- 
gether. He  gave  me  a  fine  copy  of  a  celebrated  por- 
trait of  Richelieu,  and  we  are  to  lunch  together  on 
Wednesday  at  Lady  Burdctt-Coutts's.  .  .  .  She  saw 
the  "  Fool's  Revenge  "  last  night,  and  seemed  greatly 
moved  by  my  acting.  Unfortunately,  my  engagement, 
though  it  has  been  extended  six  weeks,  lasts  only  until 
March  12,  and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  produce  more  than 
three  more  plays  this  season,  unless  some  change  should 
occur  in  the  manager's  plan.  Think  of  only  three  thea- 
tres for  tragedy  in  London,  while  farce  and  burlesque 
have  thirty  or  more  !  The  weather  has  been  so  delight- 
ful this  winter  that  Parliament  sits  unusually  early, — 
already  in  session, — and  many  who  do  not  come  to 
town  before  March  are  flocking  hither.  We  've  had  but 
few  tolerable  fogs,  a  little  spit  of  snow,  a  good  share  of 
rain,  but  no  really  d — nable — I  should  say  London  — 
weather  yet.  The  best  effect  that  England  has  had  on 
me  is  to  reconcile  me  to  the  stovepipe  hat  and  dinner- 
parties :  I  wear  the  one  and  attend  the  others  regularly 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  223 

every  Sunday  evening.  I  'm  dressed  up  now,  waiting 
for  the  carriage  to  take  us  to  dine  with  our  doctor,  who 
has  been  treating  Mary  for  throat  disease  ever  since  we 
came  here.  Her  great  pluck  keeps  her  up  and  about, 
but  she  is  a  very  sick  woman,  having  lost  her  voice  and 
much  flesh,  and  she  suffers  great  pain  constantly;  yet 
people  who  do  not  know  her  can't  believe  that  she  is  an 
invalid.  I  'm  awfully  hungry,  and  my  swallowtail  is  n't 
comfortable  here  ;  I  love  it  not.  Edvvina  has  the  best 
time  of  it,  dining  and  dancing  all  the  time.  I  hardly 
know  what  I  shall  do  about  the  Continental  tour ;  if  I 
could  have  a  fair  swing  at  London,  I  could  act  at  least 
two  years  steadily.  For  the  Continent  —  or,  rather,  to  act 
in  Germany,  which  has  long  been  my  hobby  —  I  would 
require  a  company,  and  the  expense  would  be  fearful. 
I  shall  soon  begin  to  feel  my  way,  however.  I  hear 
glowing  accounts  of  splendid  business  from  all  parts  of 
the  States  but  Frisco.  I  am  afraid  our  dear  old  ranch  is 
played  out,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  be  wise  in  getting 
rid  of  all  your  interests  there  and  settling  in  New  York. 
Actors  are  so  scarce,  I  am  told,  that  there  'd  be  little 
fear  of  your  not  having  sufficient  employment,  if  you 
needed  it,  in  the  city ;  for  traveling  companies  leave 
plenty  of  vacancies  in  the  standard  theatres.  .  .  . 
Have  just  returned  from  "  grub."  'T  was  very  "  swell," 
yet  jolly  enough,  and  1  feel  stomachically  better  than  I 
did.  Wherever  I  have  been,  Irving  and  his  splendid 
scenery  formed  the  chief  topics  of  conversation.  I  think 
the  theatre  is  talked  of  here  more  than  with  us, —  I  mean 
among  the  "upper  crust," — and  I  'm  sure  that  actors 
are  received  in  society  more  generally.  With  us  only 
very  distinguished  ones  are  invited,  while  here  I  have 
met  many  of  subordinate  positions  in  the  best  houses. 
The  Marchioness  of  Ely  (the  Queen's  "  right  bower  ")  and 
my  wife  have  corresponded  about  me,  and  Leopold  saw 


2  24  EDWIN   BOOTH 

"Richelieu,"  and  sent  for  my  photo.  .  .  .  A  famous  artist  ^ 
is  painting  me  as  Richelieu,  and  after  its  exhibition  at  the 
Academy  will  L;ive  it  to  me.  Full  life-size!  Now,  ask- 
that  "  feller  "  who  said  "  give  us  more  "  if  I  have  n't  given 
enough  this  time.  I  like  the  pressed  flower  that  comes 
occasional!}'  from  far  old  Frisco,  o'er  the  seas ;  I  try  to 
keep  them.  The  last  is  very  pretty.  God  bless  you 
both  !  Good  night,  with  Christmas  blessings  and  many 
happy  New  Years.  Ted. 


TO    E.    C.    STEDMAN. 

London,  March  27,  i88i. 
My  dear  Stedman: 

At  last  my  great  London  engagement  is  ended.  Thank 
God,  a  thousand  times,  again  and  again  repeated  !  I  never 
had  such  an  uphill  drag  of  it  in  all  my  professional  expe- 
rience, to  say  nothing  of  the  many  annoyances  connected 

with  the  mean  and  tricky  management  of and . 

I  've  had  dyspepsia  in  its  worst  form  nearly  half  the  time, 
the  result  of  intense  anxiety  on  my  wife's  account.  For  two 
weeks  now  she  has  been  confined  to  her  bed,  just  hover- 
ing 'twixt  life  and  death.  You  can  imagine  my  interest 
in  acting  under  such  circumstances.  On  the  whole,  the 
critics  have  used  me  well.  So  Irving  and  I  are  at  last  to 
hitch  together,  but  only  for  a  short  pull  of  four  weeks  at 
"  Othello."  Every  seat  worth  securing  is  booked  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  brief  term  of  our  combination,  and 
London  is  very  much  excited  over  it.  Of  course  I  live  in 
dread  anxiety  lest  my  wife's  death,  which  seems  certain, 
may  occur  either  at  the  beginning  or  during  the  engage- 
ment ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  this  fearful  suspense  makes  me 
wish  it  was  canceled  and  off  my  mind.     I  shall  not  be  in 

1  Mr.  John  Collier. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  22  S 

trim  for  acting  under  any  circumstances,  unless  a  miracle 
should  lift  her  up  again.  Poor  Edwina  bravely  assumes 
the  duties  so  new  to  her,  but  I  have  my  fears  for  her  health 
also.      Our  kindest  regards  to  wife  and  family. 

Ever  yours,  Edwin. 


London,  May  8,  1881. 
My  dear  old  Grandpa: 

I  hope  you  like  it.  Love  and  congratulations  for  all 
hands,  ahoy  !  Well,  the  event  has  "eventuated,"  as  doubt- 
less )'Ou  have  read  by  cablegram.  All  went  well.  The 
first  week  is  over,  and  the  change  of  parts  begins  to- 
morrow. Irving,  his  company,  and  the  audiences  treat 
me  splendidly.  This  engagement  may  run  till  June  ;  it  is 
uncertain.  The  houses  are  jammed,  the  play  well  set  and 
very  well  acted,  and  there  's  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
be  kept  going;  but  as  I  am  only  a  guest,  I  do  not  like  even 
to  hint  at  a  continuance.  Don't  see  much  of  Smalley  now. 
My  wife's  illness  has  upset  everything,  and  perplexes  me 
very  much.  Edwina  has  had  charge  of  household  and 
social  duties,  and  is  kept  very  busy.  She  is  wonderfully 
apt,  and  does  the  work  well. 

I  read  with  envy  your  account  of  "  Paradise"  among  the 
cocoanuts  and  bananas.  In  my  youth  I  spent  some  happy 
months  at  several  islands  in  the  South  Pacific,  and  my 
fancy  often  floats  me  thither ;  but  I  had  no  such  dinners 
as  you  had.  I  lived  on  fruits,  pig,  and  poe-poe.  Pa- 
deau  was  with  me  t'  other  day,  and  asked  after  Mrs. 
Bierstadt.  I  had  forgotten  your  mention  of  her,  poor 
little  woman  !     I  did  not  know  of  her  ill  health. 

Yours  ever,  Edwin  Pooth. 


2  26  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO    DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

London,  June  6,  1881. 
Dear  Davy: 

H)-  the  time  this  reaches  you  I  shall  doubtless  be  in 
New  York  —  we  sail  on  the  i8th,  where  I  will  find  your 
letter  on  my  arrival,  I  hope.  .  .  .  My  engagement  with 
Irving  terminates  on  the  15th.  It  has  been  in  every 
respect  very  agreeable  and  ponderously  successful ;  it 
could  run  several  weeks,  if  not  months,  longer.  I  have 
made  a  solid  mark  here;  but,  as  fate  will  have  it,  I  must 
leave  in  the  midst  of  my  success,  I  presume.  .  .  .  Rut 
it  does  not  make  me  miserable  ;  my  life  has  been  so  full 
of  ups  and  downs  that  I  calmly  accept  any  rise  or  fall  that 
may  occur.  .  .  .  My  best  wishes  to  Lizzie,'  poor  soul ! 
I  'm  glad  her  friends  stick  to  her,  and  hope  all  is  clear  for 
her  to  a  happy  old  age.  I  wish  your  own  affairs  were 
easier,  but  you  have  the  very  best  of  all  God's  goods  —  a 
gay  heart,  happy  companionship,  and,  I  hope,  good  health. 
My  dear  old  mother  is  nearing  her  end  also :  I  think  she 
feels  it;  her  letters  indicate  it.  Edwina,  thank  God!  is 
well  under  all  her  trials.  Everything  has  devolved  upon 
her  since  Mary's  illness,  and  it  is  surprising  how  well  she 
manages  social  and  household  duties  strange  to  her.  I 
suppose  I  must  now  go  into  constant  work,  for  a  while  at 
least ;  idleness  would  only  intensify  the  sadness  that  is 
hovering  over  my  domestic  life. 

I  dined  with  Asia  to-day  —  the  first  time  I  have  seen 
her  for  nearly  two  months.  Clarke  is  in  Philadelphia, 
building  a  splendid  theatre  out  of  a  shell  set  up  in  Broad 
street  by  the  Kiralfys  some  years  ago.  .  .  .  Took  tea 
with  H.  R.  H.  t'  other  day — and  met  the  lovely  Langtry 
and  other  beauties.  Hope  you  '11  go  to  New  York,  and 
settle  there  for  good.     God  bless  you  both  ! 

Ever  yours,  Ted. 

1  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Saunders. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  227 

TO   NAHUM   CAPEN, 

Windsor  Hotel,  July  28,  1881. 
Dear  Sir: 

I  can  give  you  very  little  information  regarding  my 
brother  John.  I  seldom  saw  him  since  his  early  boyhood 
in  Baltimore.  He  was  a  rattle-pated  fellow,  filled  with 
Quixotic  notions.  While  at  the  farm  in  Maryland  he 
would  charge  on  horseback  through  the  woods,  "  spout- 
ing" heroic  speeches  with  a  lance  in  his  hand,  a  relic  of 
the  Mexican  war,  given  to  father  by  some  soldier  who 
had  served  under  Taylor.  We  regarded  him  as  a  good- 
hearted,  harmless,  though  wild-brained  boy,  and  used  to 
laugh  at  his  patriotic  froth  whenever  secession  was  dis- 
cussed. That  he  was  insane  on  that  one  point,  no  one 
who  knew  him  well  can  doubt.  When  I  told  him  that  I 
had  voted  for  Lincoln's  reelection  he  expressed  deep  re- 
gret, and  declared  his  belief  that  Lincoln  would  be  made 
king  of  America ;  and  this,  I  believe,  drove  him  beyond 
the  limits  of  reason.  I  asked  him  once  why  he  did  not 
join  the  Confederate  army.  To  which  he  replied:  "I 
promised  mother  I  would  keep  out  of  the  quarrel,  if  pos- 
sible, and  I  am  sorry  that  I  said  so."  Knowing  my  sen- 
timents, he  avoided  me,  rarely  visiting  my  house,  except 
to  see  his  mother,  when  political  topics  were  not  touched 
upon,  at  least  in  my  presence.  He  was  of  a  gentle,  lov- 
ing disposition,  very  boyish  and  full  of  fun, —  his  mother's 
darling, —  and  his  deed  and  death  crushed  her  spirit. 
He  possessed  rare  dramatic  talent,  and  would  have  made 
a  brilliant  mark  in  the  theatrical  worltl.  This  is  positively 
all  that  I  know  about  him,  having  left  him  a  mere  school- 
boy when  I  went  with  my  father  to  California  in  1852. 
On  my  return  in  '56  we  were  separated  by  professional 
engagements,  which  kept  him  mostly  in  the  South,  while 
I  was  employed  in  the  Eastern  and  Northern  States. 

I  do  not  believe  any  of  the  wild,  romantic  stories  pub- 


J  28  EDWIN    BOOTH 

lishcd  in  the  papers  concerning  him;  but  of  course  he 
may  liavc  been  engaged  in  poh'tical  matters  of  which  I 
know  nothing.  All  his  theatrical  friends  speak  of  him  as 
a  poor,  crazy  boy,  and  such  his  family  think  of  him. 

I   am  sorry   I   can  afford  you   no  further  light  on  the 
subject.  Very  truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO   COLONEL   LAWRENCE. 

May  15,  1882. 
My  dear  Col.  Lawrence: 

Before  I  received  your  kind  note  of  invitation,  my 
daughter  had  sent  our  regrets  at  being  unable  to  enjoy 
your  hospitality,  which  I  looked  forward  to  with  much 
pleasure. 

I  have  had  hardly  an  hour  that  I  could  call  my  own 
since  I  left  the  theatre,  and  the  engagements  already 
made  will  inconvenience  me  very  much,  being  so  pressed 
for  time  before  I  sail. 

Believe  me,  I  am  very  sorry  to  forego  the  pleasure  you 
kindly  offer,  but  hope  that  in  the  future  I  shall  have  the 
honor  of  being  your  guest. 

On  Saturday  I  expect  to  start  for  Pittsfield — just  for  a 
Sunday  peep  into  "  The  Box,"  to  see  how  the  dear  ones 
get  on. 

I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Bartlett  from  Newport,  telling  her  that 
next  Sunday  is  the  only  day  at  my  command,  but  as  yet 
I  've  had  no  word  from  her.  She  was  ailing  from  anxiety 
for  her  children  when  I  last  heard  from  her,  and  she  was 
about  going  to  Boston  for  a  few  days. 

I  sincerely  hope  that  she  and  the  children  are  well. 

With  kindest  regards  for  you  both, 

I  am  very  truly  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS 


229 


TO    MISS   MARY    L.  BOOTH. 

New  York,  May  25,  1882. 
My  dear  Miss  Booth: 

Ages  seem  to  have  passed  since  I  received  your  kind 
letters,  yet  neither  of  them  have  I  acknowledged.  For- 
give, and  do  not  think  me  neglectful.  I  have  been  pes- 
tered and  beset  by  numerous  worries,  on  the  heels  of 
which  came  my  poor  girl's  sudden  and  serious  illness ; 
these  are  my  excuses  for  not  answering  either  of  your 
kind  letters. 

Edwina  has  been  in  bed  eleven  days  with  pleurisy  and 
a  slight  attack  of  pneumonia,  and  her  physicians  say  she 
must  remain  there  and  be  kept  very  quiet  for  at  least  two 
weeks  longer.  This  prevents  our  sailing  next  Wednes- 
day, and  I  have  deferred  my  London  trip  till  June  14th; 
indeed,  the  engagement  too  may  have  to  be  postponed. 
By  the  date  named,  the  doctor  says,  Edwina  will  be  able 
to  travel,  but  not  before.  This  will  embarrass  my  affairs 
in  England  very  much,  of  course;  for  I  have  engaged  a 
theatre  (the  Adelphi)  and  company,  and  other  very  ex- 
pensive but  necessary  evils,  to  begin  June  26th,  With 
the  best  of  luck  I  cannot  be  there  before  the  24th,  which 
leaves  no  time  for  preparation.  If  Edwina  is  not  per- 
fectly well  I  shall  put  off  the  engagement  altogether,  for 
I  will  not  risk  her  health  for  any  consideration. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  my  sister's  book.  She  sent  mate- 
rial enough  for  three  such  volumes,  and  I  think  very 
much  of  her  most  interesting  matter  had  to  be  omittcil. 
But  Hutton  did  his  very  best,  with  great  labor  to  himself; 
for  she  is  inexperienced  in  the  art  of  book-making. 

Poor  fellow!  His  was  indeed  a  sad  loss.  The  dear 
old  lady  was  loved  by  all  who  knew  her,  I  am  sure.  I 
hope  to  meet  him  somewhere  in  England.      I  urged  him 

•5* 


230 


EDWIN   BOOTH 


to  make  an  effort  to  ^o  with  me  through  Germany  when 
I  make  my  tour  through  that  country.  Haase,  and 
other  Germans  of  note,  assure  me  that  I  shall  be  success- 
ful there,  and  my  sole  ambition  now  (so  far  as  Europe  is 
ciMicerned)  is  to  obtain  the  German  indorsement.  Eng- 
land has  done  for  me  all  that  she  is  likely  to  do,  I  fancy, 
and  as  for  Italy,  France,  or  Russia,  which  countries  I  am 
advised  to  visit,  I  have  never  entertained  a  professional 
thought  or  hope. 

Remember  me  kindly  to  Mrs.  Wright.  I  hope  to  see 
you  both  before  I  go;  and  with  sincere  regards  for  your- 
self, I  am  Truly  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO   COLONEL   LAWRENCE. 

May  25,  1882. 
My  dear  Col.  Lawrence: 

Although  Edwina  is  not  permitted  to  see  her  friends, 
she  cordially  appreciates  their  many  kind  attentions. 

Speaking  of  this  to-day,  she  wondered  if  it  would  be 
very  improper  to  ask  Miss  Gertrude  to  play  for  her  when 
it  is  clear  enough  for  her  to  call  again.  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  ask  this  favor,  knowing  that  it  will  please  you  all  to 
confer  the  kindness.  But  if  it  should  cause  any  inconve- 
nience, pray  do  not  hesitate  to  decline  it. 

Edwina  is  improving  rapidly,  but  her  doctors  say  that 
she  must  remain  in  bed  at  least  two  weeks  longer,  and  be 
kept  very  quiet. 

I  have  deferred  my  departure  until  the  fourteenth  of 
June,  in  consequence  of  her  illness.  By  this  delay  I  shall 
not  arrive  in  London  till  the  24th,  and  my  engagement 
begins  on  the  26th  —  rather  a  "close  shave." 

Launt  has  been  quite  ill  of  late,  and  is  going  to  Wilton 
with  his  brother  for  a  few  days'  rest. 


LETTERS   TO    HIS   FRIENDS  23  I 

I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  to 
make  my  calls ;  my  time  is  so  occupied  that  days  fly  by 
like  minutes.  If  you  should  be  passing  the  hotel  any  day 
about  four  or  five  o'clock,  I  hope  you  will  waste  a  little 
time  with  me. 

At  all  events,  I  must  see  you  all  before  I  leave  the 
country. 

Present  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Lawrence, 
and  accept  for  yourself,  as  well  as  for  them,  the  kind  re- 
gards of 

Yours  truly, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO    DAVID    C.  ANDERSON. 

New  York,  June  10,  1882.     (Friday.) 
Dear  Davy: 

To-morrow  I  '11  taste  your  gravy.  If  it 's  just  the  same 
to  you,  we  '11  "lap  "  that  Irish  st€zv,  and  after,  with  pipes 
and  beers,  loll  in  easy  cheers.  Wha'  d'yces  say,  my 
dears  ?  About  five,  I  believe,  is  your  hour.  I  '11  be  on 
hand,  and  if  the  stew  's  not  ready,  we  '11  set  it  for  Mon- 
day— after  I  get  back  from  Philadelphia.  I  go  there 
Sunday.  Sail  Wednesday,  3:30,  I  think.  Hope  this  will 
catch  you  early.  Ted. 

On  Deck,  8  Bells,  June  20,  1882. 
Daw,  Ahoy  ! 

I  'm  afloat,  you  old  bloat!  I  'm  afloat!  Six  'n"arf 
days  by  the  log,  you  old  dog !  And  a  glassy  sea  as  we 
sail,  nary  a  gale,  as  we  sail,  you  old  whale  ! 

Oh,  by  the  by,  en  passant,  to  spare  the  precious  spoons 
of  Galveston,  I  ordered  a  set  of  (plated)  silver,  solid  and 
shiny,  to  be  sent  you  for  the  kitchen.     Tlicy  '11  do  till  I 


232  EDWIN    BOOTH 

get  back.  I  hope  the  rooms  I  want  for  mother  will  be 
ready  for  her,  and  that  she  will  take  them.  Be  on  the 
lookout  for  others  for  yourself,  if  after  the  winter  you  do 
not  like  the  ones  you  have.  Edwina  much  improved. 
Had  food  and  bad  rooms;  had  to  change  Edwina's.  Will 
mail  this  at  Ouecnstown  ;  expect  to  reach  there  Thursday 
(day  after  to-morrow)  evening. 
Love  to  you  both.     Write  soon. 

Always,  Ted. 

P.  S.     Who  do  you  suppose  is  on  board  ?     A  stout, 
gray-bearded,  fat-voiced    English-looking  party,  named 
!     The  chap  who  was  so  donkeyish  over  Laura  at 


Melbourne.  He  spoke  to  me  the  first  day  out ;  has  his 
wife  with  him — pleasant  sort  of  body.  Says  he  has  lived 
all  these  years  in  England.  Asked  after  you,  and  there 
our  conversation  dropped — my  fault,  I  suppose.  Also  in 
the  company  is  a  man  whose  name  I  know  not ;  knew 
us  both  in  Austraha  and  California ;  was  on  the  police 
force  in  Sydney  or  Melbourne  (do  your  ankles  ache  ?), 
and  knows  everybody  in  Frisco,  especially  actors,  etc. 

We  are  scudding  along  finely,  rolling  stupidly  in  a 
quiet  sea.     Sky  is  clouded,  and  the  breeze  is  invigorating. 

Everybody  writing  letters.  To-night  will  be  a  show 
of  some  kind  for  the  Liverpool  Sailors'  Home.  Why 
Americans  should  always  be  called  upon  for  this  charity, 
I  cannot  see;  they  never  do  anything  for  the  American 
sailors  on  these  vessels.  They  expect  me  to  read.  I 
won't,  because  I  "carn't,"  else  I  would. 


London,  July  3,  1882. 
Dear  Davy: 

Till  now  I  have  not  had  a  chance  to  write  since  I  left 
Queenstown,  whence  I  mailed  letters  for  you.  Reception 
great;  business  English  ;  papers  kind  ;  weather  too  good 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  233 

for  theatres ;  audiences  fashionable  and  very  enthusiastic 
every  night.  Edvvina  getting  on  splendidly.  Saw  Louisa' 
once  or  twice  last  week;  she  was  wild  with  bouquets  with 
the  Yankee  colors,  and  threw  them  to  me  and  ]\Irs.  Pate- 
man,  at  which  the  papers  marveled,  for  they  don't  do 
such  things  here  except  for  prima  donnas.  After  I  close 
here  I  shall  take  a  trip  to  Switzerland,  and  get  back  for 
rehearsals  first  week  in  September;  then  start  for  the 
tour  till  Christmas  ;  after  which  for  Germany. 

Abbey  has  Langtry  this  fall  and  Irving  next.  Takes 
all  the  company  and  scenes,  and  wants  me  to  play  at  the 
Lyceum,  which  he  takes  during  Irving's  absence  of  about 
six  months.  Irving  was  with  me  last  night  till  2  this  A.  M. 
Winter,  Aldrich,  and  Barrett  came  a  few  days  ago,  and 
we  all  dined  together  last  night.  Saturday,  after  the 
play,  we  "  chop  "  with  Irving.  Headache  Sunday.  Ed- 
wina  joins  me  in  love. 

God  bless  you  both,  my  boys  !  Write  soon  and  often. 
Always  yours,  Ted. 


London,  July  23,  1882. 
Dear  Davy: 

Your  delightful  letter,  with  its  inclosure,  reached  me 
duly.  It  seems  a  month  ago,  but  I  've  not  been  fit  for 
letter-writing  lately — tired,  and  overrun  with  callers  aiul 
tuz't'Urs,  etc.  .    .    . 

The  lakes  of  Lucerne  and  Geneva  arc  liquid  heavens. 
I  could  n't  think  of  beer  at  either  place.  Wrote  to  Ed- 
wards anent  his  proposition  for  a  tour.  I  must  try  some- 
how to  get  in  huge  lumps  of  loaf  in  my  old  age,  and 
act  only  now  and  then — just  to  vary  the  monotony  of 
leisure.  But  how  to  do  it  when  there  are  no  regular 
companies  !    I  hope  you  have  obtained  a  home  job  ;  don't 

1  Mrs.  Louisa  Eldridgc,  the  actress. 


2j;4  EDWIN    liOOTH 

ilrc.uii  of  traveling;"  aiu'  more,  but  plan  little  sprees,  and 
pass  life  easily.  1  dare  say  Louisa  will  be  home  by  the 
time  this  reaches  you.  My  love  to  her.  She  '11  give  you 
a  full  account  t)f  "  Vurrup,"  for  she  saw  in  her  short  stay 
more  than  most  Americans  do  in  a  year.  I  write  now 
because  it  may  be  a  long  while  ere  I  get  another  chance, 
as  I  shall  be  busy  and  weary  after  I  get  to  work.  Both 
our  loves  to  you  both.  God  bless  you,  too  !  Adieu  ! 
Always  and  ever  yours,  Ted. 


Rotterdam,  Aug.  3,  1882. 
Dear  Davy  boy: 

Here  we  are  in  Dutchland,  on  the  Maas, —  the  most 
interesting  place  we  have  seen  since  London.  Brussels 
and  Antwerp  are  too  modern,  and  in  a  few  years,  I  fear, 
this  city  will  have  lost  its  interest  to  the  tourist,  they  are 
"  going  ahead  "  so  fast.  (I  wish  they  would  improve  their 
pens.)  Clean,  sober,  and  polite  are  the  people,  and  many 
of  them  speak  English  perfectly.  Cigars  are  excellent, 
and  cheaper  than  at  home.  Have  n't  yet  tried  their  pipes, 
but  their  beer  is  bully  !  I  am  full  of  it  now  !  I  am  afraid 
I  shall  not  get  my  letters  regularly;  't  is  difficult  to  state 
the  exact  place  and  date  for  their  transmission, 

I  shall  try  to  send  a  greeting  to  you  from  Bingen  as  we 
go  up  the  Rhine.  This  tour  is  Edwina's,  and  I  go  as  she 
directs ;  but  I  notice  that  I  pay  all  the  bills  I  Have  you 
ever  been  here  ?  'T  is  unlike  all  other  places  (just  a  smack 
of  Venice,  perhaps),  and  I  could  spend  a  month  here  in  full 
enjoyment  of  it  —  specially  the  beer  !  The  beer  is  bully  ! 
I  'm  glad  you  find  your  rooms  a  refuge  from  the  broiling 
heat.  We  had  it  pretty  warm  here  to-day,  but  yet  we 
wear  our  winter  underclothes,  and  sleep  under  blankets. 

Have  met  American  tourists  everywhere,  and  of  course 
they  talk  of  me  to  all  they  can  talk  to ;  consequently  I  am 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    FRIENDS  235 

pretty  well  known  as  I  go.     We  have  a  good  courier  who 
speaks  several  languages  after  a  fashion  of  his  own,  and 
he  saves  us  a  deal  of  trouble  in  traveling  and  sight-seeing ; 
in  fact  we  have  none.      He  is  a  descendant  of  the  great 
Van  Dyck,  and  he  is  very  proud  of  his  name,  and  therefore 
I  call  him  Vanderdeken  and  Van  Tromp,  Van  Winkle  and 
Van  Tassel,  and  he  thinks  it  my  mistake,  of  course.      He 
is  my  valet  also,  and  looks  after  me  like  a  "  Dutch  uncle." 
His  phrases  are  very  funny :   one  of  the  most  frequent  is 
"  dem  sort  of  kind  "  for  "  that  sort  of  thing."     I  like  the 
Dutch.     The  women  are  pretty,  the  men  affable,  and  the 
beer  is  bully  !      Here  's  your  "  goothel  "  !      We  are  all 
well,  and  if  we  had  six  instead  of  one  month,  would  be 
happy.    The  nightmare  of  my  provincial  tour  in  England 
still  haunts  me.      If  I  had  a  decent  pen  I  'd  write  more 
nonsense,  but  the  only  one  I  have  doth  beat  the  Dutch, 
and  they  are  hard  to  beat,  specially  on  their  beer  —  their 
beer  is  Bully  (with  a  big  B  this  time),  and  don't  you  forget 
it !     Here  's  your  goothel  unt  your  family's,  yaw  ! 

Ted. 

Skeeters  abound,  but,  as  they  're  Dutch,  I  like  them. 

BiNGEN,  August  17,  1882. 
Dear  Davy: 

Take  this  greeting 
From  a  distant  friend  of  thine : 
A  friend  in  far-off  Bingen  — 
Your  "  Bingen-on-the- Rhine." 
Its  praise  I  've  heard  you  singin' 
With  many  a  tipsy  tear, 
But,  Dave,  I  'm  disappointed 
With  all,  except  its  Incr. 
In  the  midst  of  these  rich  vineyards, 
I  prefer  the  poor  hop-vine, 


236  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Lest  I  get  "  boozed  "  at  Bingen  — 

At  '*  Bingen-on-the-Rhine." 

Yes,  still  to  beer  I  'm  clingin' — 

And,  David,  it  is  fine  !  — 

Altho'  not  brewed  at  Bingen, 

'T  is  safer  than  its  wine, 

Which  sets  my  wits  a-wingin', 

Puts  my  plummet  out  of  line  : 

Were  jfl//  ever  "  boozed  "  at  Bingen  — 

(Hie  !)  "Bingen-on-the-Rhine  "  ? 

If  you  come  again,  I  'm  thinkin' 

You  '11  be  so  on  its  wine  — 

I  've  drunk  all  the  beer  at  Bingen  — 

Beerless  "  Bingen-on-the-Rhine  "  ! 

Confess,  now  (hie)  —  no  shinin' — 

If  "  Ya  "  (hie)  don't  say  "  Nein  "  ; 

D  —  n  the  odds  !  at  Bingen  — 

(Hie)  "  Bingen-on-the-Rhine  "  ! 

Edwina  has  gone  to  bed  weeping  over  this  pathetic 
effusion,  tho'  she  thinks  there  's  more  poetry  (!)  than  truth 
in  it.  She  received  Aunt  Davy's  letter,  and  enjoyed  it 
very  much,  and  sends  love  to  you  both.  We  had  to  skip 
Amsterdam  on  account  of  the  dampness  of  Holland,  Ed- 
wina suffering  from  it.  So  we  started  for  the  Rhine  at 
once,  and  here  we  are  at  Bingen,  as  you  perceive,  full  of 
romantic  notions  and  sich.  From  Cologne  to  Coblentz 
the  trip  is  very  monotonous,  the  scenery  too  "  samey," 
fiat,  and  uninteresting;  but  from  the  latter  place  to  this,  in 
spite  of  a  heavy  storm  all  day,  the  shores  on  both  sides 
are  filled  with  delightful  views.  We  enjoyed  it  hugely. 
In  acknowledgment  of  the  leaf  Edwina  received,  she  sends 
the  inclosed  "boquet."  To-morrow  we  go  to  Heidelberg^ 
and  if  possible  will  take  a  peep  Sunday  at  old  Nuremberg, 
one  of  the  most  interesting  spots  in  Germany.    One  night 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  237 

our  "  guide  "  had  no  room  (the  hotel  being  crowded),  and 

the  maid  had  two  beds  in  hers.      He  proposed  to  "but 

zum  skreams  ^  "  around  her  bed,  and  take  the  other,  but 

she  objected,  although  he  promised  to  lay  "kerviet  as  a 

shile  "  all  night.      He  's  a  character  !    Had  a  letter  from 

Edwards  anent  the  proposed  tour ;  no  more  tours  for  me, 

I  hope.     Will  write  him  Sunday.      I  am  full  of  aches  — 

caught   a   severe   cold   in  damp   Dutchland.       Am  ver)- 

sorry  to  lose  Amsterdam,  the  chief  city  of  Holland.     How 

I  should  like  to  tour  Europe  at  my  leisure  !     But  I  'm 

thankful  even  for  the  mere  glimpses  I  get  of  the  various 

places    we    visit.       Good    night.     God  bless    you  both ! 

Mother  seems  to  be  happy  under  the  new  order  of  things. 

Thank  God  !    She  won't  move  to  town  till  October.    Best 

love  to  you  both. 

Ted. 


Scarborough,  England,  Sept.  20,  1882. 
Dear  Davy : 

Here  's  your  snowflower,  with  a  list  of  the  tour. 
Yours  in  acknowledgment  of  my  Bingen  epistle  just 
come.  After  a  smoky  week  at  Sheffield,  and  a  delightful 
day  at  York,  we  arrived  here  yesterday  —  a  charming 
place.  Just  on  the  beach  of  the  German  ocean  stands  a 
grand  hotel,  at  which  I  am  now;  a  splendid  house,  but 
rather  too  fashionable.  I  opened  to  full  and  fashionable 
house  last  night;  but  the  theatre  is  so  small  that  very 
little  money  is  received.  The  weather  is  gloomy,  and 
that  is  better  for  business  than  if  it  were  fair.  It  must 
be  a  heavenly  place  when  the  sun  shines.  We  had  a 
stroll  about  the  quaint  place  and  on  the  beach,  and 
found  the  air,  in  spite  of  clouds,  very  soft  —  more  so  than 
at  Newport.      Yes,  indeed,  my  Davy  ;   I  wish  you  and   1 

1  Screens. 


23 S  EDWIN    BOOTH 

could  go  back  a  few  years  and  tramp  about  old  Bingen 
and  Heidelberg.  I  could  enjoy  a  month  in  nearly  every 
town  I  have  visited  in  Germany  and  Switzerland,  and 
there  are  many  in  England  that  are,  to  me,  full  of  in- 
terest and  homely  feeling.  After  we  cast  our  slough, 
and  the  feathers  sprout,  we  may  be  able  to  zving  our 
way  about  the  dear  old  places  ;  but  then  we  can't  in- 
dulge in  beer  !  No ;  I  did  not  visit  the  brewery,  but  all 
the  other  spots  you  speak  of  I  did. 

This  is  only  a  "shake";  Edwina  is  going  to  write 
"Aunt  Davy,"  and  send  her  a  slip  of  heather — not  from 
"  Bonnie  Scotia,"  but  from  near  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire's place  out  of  Sheffield,  I  believe:  I  get  mixed  at 
times  about  details.  Our  united  loves  to  you  both.  I 
am  happy  that  you  still  enjoy  your  little  home;  wish 
I  could  "lap"  with  you  to-day.  The  vision  of  you  two 
in  the  kitchen  makes  me  hungry.     Bless  you  both  ! 

Yours  ever,  Ted, 


TO   DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

Hull,  Oct.  26,  1882. 
Dear  Davy: 

This  sickly  looking  paper  is  all  I  have  at  hand,  with  no 
envelops. 

Yours,  with  mother's,  bouquet  from  the  Branch  came 
t'  other  day.  She  also  wrote  an  account  of  your  good  wel- 
come, and  she  seems  to  enjoy  her  new  home,  but  is  very 
tired,  she  says.  I  fear  the  Boston  work  won't  be  worth 
the  trouble ;  don't  be  risking  your  precious  health  in  such 
weather  as  our  falls  and  winters  bring,  particularly  in 
Boston.    .    .    . 

My  tour  continues  successful,  so  far  as  puffery  and  en- 
thusiasm go.  It  is  pleasant  enough  when  the  sun  shines, 
wliicli  is  n't  every  day.      For  three  weeks  I  have  been  in 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  239 

ointment  and  bandages.  A  dogan  stuck  me  on  the  stage 
one  night,  and  in  consequence  of  my  own  doctoring  I  in- 
flamed my  blood  and  reproduced  the  old  poison-ivy  ef- 
fect, though  the  doctors  called  it  erysipelas ;  they  know 
nothing  of  our  hellish  weeds  in  this  country.  Both  arms 
have  been  swollen,  and  given  me  torture  by  incessant 
itching ;  but  I  have  got  pretty  well  over  the  trouble  now. 

.  .  .  My  girl  is  well  and  happy,  and  sends  love  to  all 
of  you  ;  "  me  too."  This  is  a  dirty,  busy  town,  and  quite 
small.  The  audiences  are  quiet  and  appreciative,  ap- 
plauding warmly  and  "  in  the  proper  places,  too."  But  the 
men  all  keep  their  hats  on.  It  looks  jolly  queer.  Next 
week  I  shall  spend  in  Leeds,  where  I  am  told  the  theatre 
surpasses  any  we  have  in  America.  I  go  to  Dublin  from 
there,  but  I  do  not  like  the  idea  of  even  a  short  sea-trip  at 
this  season,  as  the  Channel  is  generally  rough  and  the 
winds  violent.  Two  weeks  there,  and  the  worst  part  of 
my  tour  will  be  ended.  I  thought  of  spending  a  few 
weeks'  vacation  (before  going  to  Germany)  in  Rome,  but 
the  journey  there,  and  then  to  Berlin,  would  be  too  fa- 
tiguing, so  I  shall  go  to  a  few  near-by  places  in  England, 
and  fetch  up  in  Paris  for  a  rest.     .    .    . 

Ah,  my  boy,  I  wish  I  could  hop  o'er  the  sea  and  stew 
a  bit  wi'  ye,  but  I  have  Yorkshire  "  poodang"  for  dinner, 
and  carn't  to-day. 

In  York  they  never  heard  of  "  Yorkshire  pudding  "  ! 
and  a  "  Welsh  rabbit "  in  Wales  is  a  stranger  !  Dinner  's 
ready  !     Bye-bye  !  ^  ^'"• 


TO   DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

Leeds,  Nov.  4,  1882. 
Dear  Davy  : 

We  start  for  Dublin   to-morrow,  7  A.  M.,  and 
cross  the  Channel   in  a  storm,  I   fear;   for  it  has  rained, 


240  EDWIN    BOOTH 

ami  hailed,  and  howled  here  all  the  week.  A  most  dis- 
mal place,  with  the  grandest  theatre  I  ever  saw  anywhere, 
except  the  Paris  Opera  House.  It  is  superb  and  empty 
all  the  time :  had  what  they  call  here  a  good  house  last 
night,  but  — ! 

What  a  lucky  burn  the  Park  Theatre  was  for  Wallack ; 
better  for  Langtry,  too,  as  it  has  turned  out.  Mother 
writes  cheerfully,  and  is  much  pleased  with  her  doll- 
house. 

Feel  measly  to-day,  and  expect  to  be  dreadfully  seasick 
to-morrow,  for  I  am  bilious. 

God  bless  you  !  Ted. 


Manchester,  November  26,  1882. 
Dear  Davy : 

Yours,  just  after  your  return  from  the  "  provincial 
tour,"  caught  me  here  the  day  I  arrived  —  last  Sunday, 
just  a  week  ago.  Business,  like  the  weather,  very  bad 
until  last  night,  when  Richard  drew  more  money  than 
I  have  taken  any  night  on  the  tour.  A  good  one-nigJit 
stand  is  Manchester.  I  am  mighty  glad  of  your  success 
in  Boston,  and  am  glad,  too,  that  you  were  not  tempted 
to  quit  your  little  "snuggery"  for  "the  road,"  or  even  the 
killing  climate  of  Boston.  Since  we  met  I  have  become 
a  "  forty-niner,"  as  you  doubtless  know.  I  touched  that 
notch  in  Dublin,  my  beauty.  You  and  I  were  in 
Melbourne  on  my  twenty-first  birthday  I  I  did  what 
they  call  splendidly  in  Dublin,  two  weeks,  and  left  to 
increasing  business.  The  boys  in  front  were  quiet 
enough  during  the  play  ;  spoke  to  me  once  or  twice, 
I  believe,  but  I  did  not  experience  any  of  the  old-time 
fun  I  have  heard  and  read  about.  In  this  hotel  we  have 
the  best  cooking  and  a  greater  variety  of  food  yet  found 
in   England.     A  fine,   busy  city,  beautiful  theatre,  and 


KDWIN    noOTM    AS    RICHKI.IHI!.       PROM    A    I'AISTINC,    IIV   JOHN    COI.I.IKN,    H.    A. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS 


241 


excellent  hotel ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  away  from 
'em  all !  The  weather  has  been  beastly.  It  always  is 
here,  they  say;  it  's  called  the  "watering-pot"  of  Encr. 
land.  After  three  weeks  I  shall  have  a  month's  rest,  but 
don't  know  now  where  we  '11  go.  Have  had  several  in- 
vitations from  big  folks  here — one  from  John  Bright's 
brother  Jacob,  to  pass  this  day  at  his  place  near  by. 
But  I  was  too  tired  to  go,  and  declined  all  the  courtesies 
offered  me.  Did  you  get  a  Chinese  journal  from  me 
while  in  Germany  ?  It  contained  just  such  reading  as 
you  'd  enjoy  by  the  range,  behind  your  pipe.  I  wish 
Abbey  had  a  permanent  berth  for  you  in  New  York,  but 
not  at  his  Park.     Will  he  rebuild  ?    .    .    . 

Now  it  is  drawing  close  to  my  girl's  "  twenty-firster." 
Think  of  it !  She  joins  me  in  love  to  you  both.  God 
bless  you!  Don't  "lap"  all  that  stew;  I  'm  coming. 
,   .    .    Adieu.  Ted. 

London,  Dec.  21,  1882. 
Dear  Davy: 

It  seems  so  long  since  I  heard  from  or  wrote  to  you 
that  I  forget  when.  I  know  that  I  intended  to  send  you 
a  Christmas  card,  and  did  n't ;  so  here  it  is,  though  it  be 
late,  not  untimely,  nor  yet  unwelcome,  let  me  hope.  .  .  . 
Next  Wednesday  we  start  for  Berlin  by  easy  stages,  and 
expect  to  arrive  by  January  i  ;  then  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble my  rehearsals  will  begin,  and  continue  to  the  15th, 
when  I  open,  and  shut,  too,  perhaps.  It  may  be  a  startling 
fizzle.  Saw  "Much  Ado" — the  finest  production,  in 
every  respect,  I  ever  saw.  Terry  is  Beatrice  herself; 
Irving's  conception  and  treatment  of  the  part  are  excellent. 
It 's  worth  crossing  the  sea  to  see,  D.  C. 

Keep  dat  hash  hot  till  I  git  dar  ! 

Mother  says  she  has  not  seen  you  often  of  late ;  I  fear 
the  dear  old  soul  would  be  lonely  anywhere.    .    .    . 


242  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO   DAVID   C.    ANDERSON. 

Berlin,  January  29,  1883. 
Dear  Dave  : 

Yours  announcing  your  appointment  as  treasurer  came 
some  days  ago.  By  this  time  you  know  all  about  my 
success  here  ;  't  is  solid.  Glad  you  had  happy  Christmas 
and  New  Year's.  So  had  we,  in  a  measure ;  but  since 
then  we  have  had  a  gloomy  sort  of  time.  .  .  .  Yes, 
Davy,  take  the  Den  and  keep  it — I  hope  mother  will  do 
likewise,  if  she  likes  her  quarters.  She  told  me  of  the 
pleasant  evening  you  all  had.  .  .  .  There  's  a  howler 
(female)  on  this  floor  with  us — yelling  now.  Glad  you 
are  rid  of  your  cold;  I  am  suffering  with  a  terrible  one 
now,  and  feel  hardly  able  to  get  through  this  scrawl.  The 
death  of  the  emperor's  brother  has  upset  my  "  Royalty  " 
business.  I  would  have  been  presented  to  the  "  Im- 
perials "  at  a  fete  that  some  nobs  were  getting  up,  but 
the  court  is  in  mourning  now,  and  will  be  till  I  leave 
Berlin.  Next  week  I  shall  play  lago  and  Othello  a  few 
nights,  and  wind  up  with  Hamlet.  I  shall  be  glad  when 
I  get  through  with  this  tour  —  it  is  terrible  work,  as  I 
have  mentally  to  recite  in  English  what  the  Germans  are 
saying,  in  order  to  make  the  speeches  fit. 

Our  love  to  you  both.  Ted. 


Hamburg,  February  18,  1883. 
Dear  Dave: 

Tell  mother  that  as  Edwina  has  just  written  to  her,  I 
will  let  mine  go  over  to  next "  Sonntag,"  and  what  I  may 
chance  to  say  that  Edwina  has  not,  you  can  repeat  to 
her.  My  success  is,  if  possible,  increased  here;  the  people 
(and,  I  am  told,  the  press)  seem  wild  over  me.    The  stage- 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS 


24: 


director  {jy),  your  very  counterpart  (I  call  him  "  Uncle 
Dave";  he  played  Poloniiis  with  me,  too),  who  was  pu- 
pil to  Ludwig  Devrient  (Germany's  greatest  tragedian), 
hugs  me,  kisses  my  hand,  and  calls  me  ''Mcister."  The 
manager,  who  saw  and  well  remembers  Talma,  does  the 
same,  and  both  declare  me  their  equal.  Much  for  two  old 
fogies  to  admit.  The  actors  and  actresses  weep  and  kiss 
galore  also,  and  the  audience  last  night  formed  a  passage 
from  the  lobby  to  my  carriage  till  I  was  in  and  off;  yet  I  was 
nearly  an  hour  in  the  theatre  after  the  play  ("  Lear").  Hav- 
ing had  a  surfeit  of  public  applause, — for  it  seems  as  though 
I  had  it  through  father,  being  with  him  so  long, —  the 
most  is  but  as  little  to  me;  but  this  personal  enthusiasm 
from  actors,  old  and  young,  is  a  new  experience,  and 
still  stimulates  me  strangely.  I  feel  more  like  acting  than 
I  have  felt  for  years,  and  wish  I  could  keep  it  up  here 
in  Germany  for  six  months  at  least;  but  alas  !  my  time  is 
limited,  and  the  old  man  waxeth  weary  in  his  "j'ints." 
You  've  heard  ere  this  about  the  silver  wreath  and  the 
press  testimonial  in  Berlin ;  had  to  make  my  usual 
speech.  Think  of  acting  five  acts  of  tragedy  without  a 
hand !  .  .  .  merely  a  subdued  "  Bravo!"  now  and  then; 
but  when  the  drop  falls,  call  after  call  and  "  Bravos!"  by 
the  bushel  make  it  up.  I  dare  say  applause  (if  I  ever  get 
it)  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  will  confuse  me  hereafter.  A 
son  of  Carl  Formes,  the  once  great  basso, —  now  in  New 
York, — is  my  Grave-digger  and  Fool,  an  excellent  actor, 
the  best  in  this  company.  I  play  here  to-morrow  and 
Wednesday  only  (four  performances),  and  then  go  to 
Bremen.  .  .  .  Tell  Edwards  that  T  received  his  letter, 
and  congratulate  him  sincerely,  but  that  I  have  such  a 
load  of  correspondence,  and  am  so  fatigued,  and  have  so 
little  leisure,  that  I  can  give  him  no  furtlicr  acknouK-dg- 
ment  than  this.  Love  to  "Aunt  Louisa"  when  you  sec 
her,  and  tell  her  Edwina  and  I  both  thank  her  "heaps" 


244  EDWIN    BOOTH 

tor  her  Christmas  "kinds."  This  is  a  lovely  and  most  in- 
teresting town,  something  like  Geneva,  and  the  hotel  is 
first-rate  in  every  respect.  Food  is  excellent,  and  the  air 
is  doing  us  both  a  deal  of  good.  Our  love  to  you  both 
and  all  the  dear  ones.  I  am  afraid  I  will  lose  Vienna;  the 
theatre  bust,  and  time  at  others  is  filled.  I  may  have  to 
go  to  Frankfort,  where  I  gave  "Two  thousand  ducats" 
that  "  Jessica  "  stole  from  me. 

Gute  Nacht  Ted. 


Hanover,  March  8,  1883. 

Dear  Davy : 

Only  a  few  words  of  "  how  d'ye  do  "  and  God  bless 
you  ;  I  am  tired  and  full  of  aches  to-night.  Can't  re- 
member when  I  last  wrote  to  you  or  had  a  letter  from  you, 
but  mother  tells  me  you  are  both  well,  and  that  's  com- 
fort. Success  continues,  but  no  more  silver  wreaths  since 
Bremen,  though  flowers,  laurels,  and  ribbons  galore.  I 
stop  here  a  week;  then,  after  several  days'  rest,  go  to  Leip- 
sic ;  another  two  weeks'  rest,  and  then  for  Vienna,  where 
I  close  what  I  regard  as  the  most  important  engage- 
ment of  my  life.  I  wish  I  had  a  full  year  to  revisit  the 
places  I  have  been  to,  and  to  play  other  parts,  but  I 
must  rest  satisfied  with  what  I  've  got,  though  the  man- 
agers are  all  asking  me  to  return.  Cold  and  clear, 
with  an  inch  of  snow,  after  two  or  three  days  of  sleet 
and  slush. 

Love  to  you  both  and  all  my  folks.  .  .  .  Write  long, 
and  tell  me  all  the  news.  I  'm  in  the  dark  here ;  can't 
read  Dutch,  and  seldom  see  other  papers.  God  bless  you 
both  ! 

Ted. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIExXDS  245 

Vienna,  April  9,  1883. 
Dear  Davy: 

You  see  I  have  not  lost  Vienna  after  all.  My  first  two 
roles  did  not  seem  to  take  the  critics  fully,  although  the 
people  were  enthused,  and  I  had  many  private  commen- 
dations sent  me;  but  as  Lear,  Saturday,  the  crowded  house 
went  wild,  and  all  the  papers  yesterday  and  to-day  are 
full  of  my  triumph,  and  even  begin  to  hint  at  a  repetition 
of  Hamlet  and  Othello.  It  seems  the  impression  left 
by  those  parts  was  stronger  than  they  at  first  realized. 
The  result  is  a  renewal  of  my  engagement,  and  all  the 
tickets  are  gone  for  to-night.  I  shall  not  stay  longer  than 
a  week,  however ;  for  I  want  rest,  and  have  little  time  to 
visit  the  places  I  have  promised  Edwina  that  she  shall  see 
—  old  Nuremberg,  particularly.  Poor  old  Judah  ! '  She 
must  have  been  very  old  ;  I  remember  her  from  my  earliest 
days.  The  Easter  cards  are  lovely,  and  came  on  time  — 
blessings  in  return  for  them.  Hope  you  are  both  well 
and  relish  your  victuals  again.  The  climate  of  this  beau- 
tiful city  is  worse  than  ours ;  snow  and  heat  of  sum- 
mer, rain  and  cold  winds,  during  a  single  day  on  several 
occasions. 

Have  seen  some  excellent  comedy  and  domestic  acting; 
but  tragedians  are  on  leave  of  absence,  and  1  shall  not 
have  a  chance  to  see  any  of  the  great  ones.  The  operas 
are  splendidly  done  in  every  particular;  we  have  heard 
Lucca  three  times,  and  to-night  she  comes  to  hear  me 
sing(!).  Did  you  ever?  You  oughter,  if  you  have  n'l, 
.  .  .  Love  to  the  dame.  God  bless  her  and  her  Davy  ! 
Edwina,  of  course,  joins  me  in  all  kind  messages;  she  's 
well.  Our  loves  to  all  up-stairs.  Dinner  is  served,  and  I 
must  leave.     Adieu.     Willi  love, 

Yours  forever,  Ted. 

1  Mrs.  Judah,  a  well-known  actress. 


246  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO    DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

Paris,  April  27,  1883. 

Well.  Daw: 

Here  I  are !  All  my  sojcr  clothes  in  London,  stored 
away  till  I  sail,  June  9.  Believe  me,  my  boy,  I  am  jolly 
glad  to  have  a  little  rest  after  so  much  hard  work  and 
excitement.  My  wind  up  at  Vienna  was  a  triumph,  and 
they  urged  me  to  remain  longer,  but  I  had  accomplished 
all  I  could  do  there,  and  decided  to  quit.  We  stopped  at 
quaint  old  Nuremberg,  at  Frankfort,  and  at  Metz,  to 
ease  up  the  long  trip  from  Vienna  to  this  city,  where 
we  arrived  at  about  eleven  o'clock  Wednesday  night. 
Found  lots  of  letters  at  my  banker's,  one  from  mother  and 
your  paper  she  sent. 

I  wonder  if  Salvini  is  aware  of  the  proposition  he  is 
said  to  have  made  me  ?  Had  just  ten  minutes  of  dear  old 
Bingen — to  change  tracks — after  we  left  Frankfort;  then 
we  left  the  Rhine  and  followed  the  Nar  through  a  beau- 
tiful country  till  after  dark.  All  that  I  have  seen  of 
Germany  is  beautiful.  All  that  I  have  seen  of  France, 
except  Paris,  is  otherwise ;  the  country  is  flat  and  unin- 
teresting; perhaps  in  the  south  it  may  be  "La  belle 
France,"  but  not  where  I  have  been.  I  see  that  the 
scenes  and  "props"  oi  Boot/is  are  sold  to  some  up-town 
show-shop,  and  that  May  i  will  terminate  the  theatrical 
career  of  my  "Folly."  .  .  .  Have  declined  all  offers  for 
next  season  in  England  and  America — don't  know  what 
I  shall  do  until  I  get  settled  in  some  sort  of  a  house  in 
New  York.  .  .  .  Paris  is  now  very  full  and  gay;  the 
season  is  just  begun,  and  the  weather  is — or  was — de- 
lightful ('t  is  raining  at  this  moment).  All  the  hotels  are 
full,  and  we  have  pretty  little  rooms  about  as  big  as 
yours,  but  not  so  cozy  and  clean,  facing  the  Tuileries 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS 


247 


Garden :  there  is  very  little  left  of  the  old  palace.  We 
had  the  same  rooms  last  year,  after  our  tour  in  Switzer- 
land. Bernhardt  has  just  stopped  acting,  and  there  is 
nothing  important  at  the  theatres,  so  I  shall  do  very  little 
in  that  hne.  .  .  .  This  is  a  mean  sort  of  letter,  but  I  am 
very  tired,  and  't  is  the  best  I  can  do  for  you  to-night;  't  is 
full  of  our  loves  for  you  both,  however,  so  take  it  kindly. 
Will  write  to  mother  Sunday,  as  usual.  Dear  love  to  her 
and  the  family.  Ever  yours,  Ted. 


TO    MISS   MARY    L.    BOOTH. 

36  East  Twentieth  street,  June  2,  1883. 
My  dear  Miss  Booth  : 

Forgive  my  delay  in  thanking  you  most  cordially  for 
your  kind  congratulations  and  heartfelt  welcome  home. 
I  have  hardly  had  an  hour's  rest  since  my  return,  and 
have  been  only  occasionally  in  town.  When  we  decide 
where  we  will  settle  here,  in  October  next,  I  hope  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  both  you  and  Miss  Wright. 
For  the  present,  can  only  renew  my  sincere  thanks.  In 
great  haste.  Faithfully  yours, 

Edwin  lk)oth. 


TO    DAVID    C.    ANDERSON. 

Newport,  October  5,  1883. 
Dear  Davy: 

.  .  .  I  'II  tell  you  before  I  go  to  roost  that  the  lovely 
little  slippers  for  my  "petites  tootsenfootscns  "  arrived  just 
as  I  started  for  Boston — whither  daughter  and  I  went 
for  a  couple  of  days   to  look  at  our  new  home  and  to 


248  EDWIN    BOOTH 

settle  the  particulars  of  sale,  etc.  We  are  both  delighted 
with  it  ;  so  am  I,  and  ICdwina  too.  It  is  very  jolly  here 
with  the  old  Franklin  ablaze,  on  either  side  of  which  we 
(Edwina  and  I)  sit  and  plan  and  spin  fairy  webs  of  future 
happiness.  Poor  little  girl,  she  has  had  her  full  measure 
of  pain  for  one  so  young  and  fragile,  and  I  hope  that 
from  this  henceforth  her  life  will  be  a  gladsome  one.  .  .  . 
\Vc  are  packing,  and  will  start  for  New  York  Saturday 
instead  of  the  20th,  as  I  told  you;  it  is  better  to  have  at 
least  three  weeks  in  New  York  before  I  act.  A  terrible 
storm  here  during  our  absence  damaged  the  parlor  and 
bedrooms  on  that  side;  had  I  been  here — ! 

Mother  tells  me  it  is  very  cold,  but  that  she  will  stay 
ten  days  longer,    .    .    .    Good  night ;  love  for  both. 

Ted. 

P.  S.  There  !  I  never  said  "Thankee,  marm  "  for  the 
slickers.  Mean  cuss  !  Muchee  dankee  allee  samee.  They 
are  lovely  and  little ;  I  can  get  nearly  all  my  toes  in 
them;  but  they  polish  the  floors  with  all  their  soles.  Sleepy. 
Goo'  ni'.  Kugznrrrrrrrr ! 


TO   MRS.    F.    C.    EWER.^ 

42  East  Twenty-Fifth  street,  Oct.  28,  1883. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Ewer: 

Although  I  have  been  silent  on  the  subject  so  sacred  to 
us  all,  believe  me,  my  sympathy  is  as  profound  and  sin- 
cere as  that  which  has  been  proffered  you  in  words. 

The  sudden  departure  of  my  dear  friend  so  soon  after  the 
loss  of  my  poor  brother,  and  other  sad  experiences  of  late, 
confused  me  so  that  not  till  I  received  by  chance  infor- 

1  Widow  of  the  Rev.  F.  C.  Ewer,  to  whose  kindness  I  am  indebted  for  the  above 
letters. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS   FRIENDS  249 

mation  of  the  fund  about  to  be  raised  for  yourself  and  chil- 
dren could  I  think  of  the  sad  happenings  of  the  past  few 
months  with  other  than  selfish  feelings. 

I  trust  that  you  will  not  deem  me  indelicate  or  officious 
in  offering  you  some  little  assistance  in  your  present  em- 
barrassment—  the  only  aid  that  man  can  give  to  those 
who  receive  in  full  abundance  the  consolation  which  I 
know  you  have  from  Him  who  alone  can  heal  the  wounds 
that  His  wisdom  inflicts. 

While  subscribing  to  the  fund,  I  desire  also  to  render 
some  immediate  assistance  to  those  so  dear  to  him  who 
was  dear  to  me,  and  I  beg  that  you  will  not  deny  me  the 
privilege  of  doing  for  you  what  he  would  have  done  for 
mine  in  similar  circumstances. 

With  profound  respect  and  sincerest  sympathy,  believe 
me,  dear  Mrs.  Ewer, 

Faithfully  yours,         Edwin  Booth. 


TO    WILLIAM    BISPHAM. 

Boston,  November  18,  1883. 
Dear  Will: 

...  I  have  had  a  splendid  engagement,  and  the  close 
promises  to  be  great,  but  I  've  had  to  endure  the  tortures 
of  dyspepsia  all  the  while  until  to-night;  to-morrow,  when  I 
resume  work,  I  shall,  no  doubt,  be  again  in  agony,  but  I  am 
very  thankful  for  this  day's  respite.  I  lunched  at  A  Id  rich's 
to-day,  and  gorged  my  first  square  meal  since  I  left  home  ; 
and  as  a  doctor  told  me  to  be  cautious  in  my  diet,  no 
doubt  I  shall  regret  my  indiscretion.  [Matthew]  Arnold, 
[Charles  Dudley]  Warner,  [Mark]  Twain,  [Oliver  Wen- 
dell] Holmes,  and  [W.  D.]  Howells  were  tin-  party,  and 
the  feast  was  royal,  as  you  may  suppose;  I  both  listened 
and  ate  my  fill.   ...   I  expect  to  dine  at  Pittsfield  Thanks- 


250  EDWIN    BOOTH 

giving, — turkey-day, — and,  if  I  can,  will  run  over  to 
Boothdcn  before  my  return  to  York.    .    .    . 

I  am  fifty  since  I  saw  you,  so  old  Time  declares,  but 
I  don't  believe  it.  Maybe  I  will,  and  I  did, —  under  the 
pressure  of  indigestion, — but  at  this  writing  I  feel  fif-teen, 
not  fif-tee.  We  have  had  lots  of  life  here,  and  it  does  the 
daughter  good  in  every  way.    ,    .    . 

Our  kindest  regards  to  your  wife  and  Miss  Wood — you, 
too.     I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  the  studio  you  speak  of. 

Good  night.  Yours  ever,  Ned. 


TO    MRS.    F.    C.    EWER, 

29  Chestnut  street,  Boston,  June  8,  1884. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Ewer: 

I  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  very  welcome  letter, 
and  such  interesting  views,  you  kindly  sent  me,  and  for 
which  I  am  sincerely  thankful.  Edwina  and  I  both  regret 
not  seeing  any  of  you  before  we  left,  but  everything  was 
so  hurried  and  confused  with  us  for  several  weeks  prior  to 
our  departure  that  calling  was  deferred  from  day  to  day, 
until,  as  is  usually  the  case,  all  opportunity  had  passed ; 
consequently  our  friends  were  unavoidably  slighted. 

I  found  your  son's  card  on  my  return  to  my  rooms  one 
evening,  and  fully  intended  to  say  good-bye  to  you,  if  to 
none  else,  the  next  day ;  but  did  not,  although  I  felt  it  all 
the  same. 

I  cannot  think  of  our  dear  and  noble  one  as  absent.  I 
would  not  if  I  could.  A  fine  photograph  he  gave  me  a 
few  years  ago  stands  on  the  shelf  in  my  bedroom,  where 
I  cannot  avoid  seeing  him  each  night  when  I  retire,  and 
every  morning  when  I  rise.  His  love  for  me  was  very 
true  and  deep,  and  its  memory  is  as  dear  to  me  as  are  the 
"  ruddy  drops  that  visit  my  sad  heart." 


LETTERS   TO    HIS    FRIENDS  2^1 

Any  little  precious  trifle  that  my  friend  may  have  fre- 
quently used  —  his  pipe,  for  instance  (if  not  too  dear  to 
part  with)  — would  be  prized  most  tenderly  by  me.  I  men- 
tion the  pipe  because  of  the  happy  smokes  we  had  to- 
gether; but  anything  that  you  may  prefer  to  give  me  I 
will  be  grateful  for. 

I  hope  your  new  home  is  a  comfortable  one,  and  that  it 
may  be  for  many  years  the  abode  of  happiness  to  you  and 
your  children. 

Edwina  sends  her  dearest  love,  and  when  the  many 
cares  that  for  the  time  oppress  her  have  become  less 
absorbing,  she  will  write  to  your  daughter,  if  she  has  not 
already  done  so. 

With  cordial  friendship, 

Yours  faithfully,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    WILLIAM    BISPIIAM. 

Boston,  29  Chestnut  street,  June  20,  1884. 
Dear  Will  : 

Your  wife  and  Edwina  have  corresponded  on  the  sad 
occurrence  of  your  recent  affliction,  and  her  letter  (Ed- 
wina's)  was  as  from  us  both  to  both  of  you.  'T  is  a  ter- 
rible blow  to  the  poor  mother,  whose  grief  you  all  share, 
and  for  whom  my  profoundcst  sympathy  is  excited. 

I  have  not  had  energy  enough  to  answer  your  last,  de- 
ferring it  from  day  to  day  until  now,  and  now  I  have 
nothing  to  say  in  response,  except  that  I  hope  Miller  got 
through  without  my  help,  and  that  the  cooler  is  as  cheer- 
fully presented  to  mama  as  to  her  boy  and  girl.  T  hope 
it  will  be  a  service  and  a  comfort  to  the  old  lad\- ;  my 
respects  to  her,  to  your  wife  and  your  blessed  old  self. 
Good  night.  Yours  ever, 

Ned. 


252  EDWIN   BOOTH 


TO    MRS   F.    C.    EWER. 


BooTHDEN,  Newport,  R.  I.,  July  13,  1884. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Ewer  : 

I  had  no  opportunity  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  the 
precious  package  you  kindly  sent,  and  which  reached  me 
just  as  I  was  leaving  my  Boston  house  for  a  visit  to  Sag 
Harbor,  Greenwich,  and  New  York,  before  coming  hither, 
I  was  obliged  to  place  the  articles  in  a  convenient  drawer, 
and  hurry  off  to  catch  my  train.  I  looked  at  them  with 
satisfaction,  took  your  letter  with  me,  and,  after  reading  it, 
put  it  with  several  others  in  my  pocket,  where  it  remained 
untouched  until  I  overlooked  my  apparel,  after  getting 
things  in  order  here. 

I  shall  not  be  able  to  smoke  the  pipe  or  read  the  book 
till  I  return  to  Boston,  when  I  shall  enjoy  both  to  my 
heart's  content,  I  am  sure,  and  the  little  wallet  shall  take 
the  place  of  one  that  I  now  carry.  I  am  happy  to  know 
that  you  have  such  consolation  in  the  friendship  of  those 
who  loved  the  dear  one  gone  before,  and  you  must  be 
sure  that  your  own  virtues  have  bound  them  the  firmer 
to  you. 

Edwina  has  been  considerably  fatigued  and  not  at  all 
well  the  last  few  weeks,  but  we  are  now  settled  at  home 
by  the  sea,  whose  breezes  already  begin  to  show  their 
beneficial  effects  on  her.  She  joins  me  in  sincere  regards, 
and  sends  her  love  to  both  yourself  and  your  daughter. 

With  renewed  thanks  for  the  souvenirs  of  my  dear 
friend,   I   am,   faithfully, 

Edwin  Booth. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  253 


TO   WILLIAM   BISPHAM. 

BooTHDEN,  Newport,  August  25,  1884. 
Dear  Will  : 

Thanks  for  your  recipe,  and  for  your  good  advice 
also,  neither  of  which,  however,  have  I  lately  had  occa- 
sion to  use.      Nevertheless,  both  seem  to  have  cured  me. 

I  hope  both  Mrs.  Bispham  and  you  will  come,  and 
come  before  it  is  too  cold  to  sail.  I  have  bought  a  lovely 
and  a  lively  little  yacht,  and  to-morrow  I  '11  go  with  her 
to  the  pier  [Narragansett],  where  we  have  a  charming 
little  Hungarian  friend  who  was  with  us  last  week,  and 
whom  we  accompanied  thither  last  week.  Now,  if  the 
sky  is  clear,  and  we  have  a  breeze,  we  intend  to  surprise 
her  by  an  unannounced  "call." 

I  expected  Jefferson  to-day,  but  he  can't  come  until 
Wednesday,  and  his  stay  will  be  curtailed,  and  my  antici- 
pated pleasure  of  fishing  and  picnicking  with  him  and  his 
folk  is  dashed. 

Edwina  is  in  excellent  condition,  and  we  both  wish 
often  that  you  were  on  the  yacht,  and  could  stay  for 
ya'ars  and  ya'ars. 

Good  night.     Both  of  our  loves  to  both  of  you's. 
Yours  ever, 

Edwin. 

TO   WILLIAM    BISPHAM. 

Newport,  October  12,  1884. 
Dear  Will  : 

We  missed  you  at  the  "corner-stone"  yesterday,  h 
was  a  great  success  ;  about  one  hundred  were  present, 
and  when  the  bishop  suggested  a  collection  for  the  com- 
pletion of  the  building,  the  amount  needed,  some  five  or 


2  54  EDWIN    BOOTH 

six  hundred  dollars,  was  subscribed.  Mrs.  King  and  her 
sons  ^avc  most  of  it.  Edwina  will  give  a  window,  and  I 
believe  there  arc  two  others  promised.  It  was  a  lovely- 
day,  and  after  the  ceremonies  about  twenty  folks,  with 
the  bishop  and  two  clergymen,  came  to  our  den  and 
lunched.  I  wish  you  too  could  have  been  with  us.  I 
was  surprised  to  see  myself  announced  for  Berlin  to  the 
day ;  wonder  if  I  'm  going  ?  One  has  to  consult  the 
papers  nowadays  to  ascertain  his  private  intentions.  I 
hardly  think  this  report  is  true,  for  I  think  I  shall  be  act- 
ing somewhere  en  route  to  Boston  at  the  time  stated  — 
February  next. 

Daughter  joins  me  in  love  for  you  both. 

At  last  we  have  rain ;  the  earth  is  parched,  yet  my 
place  has  been  green  and  fresh  through  it  all. 
Ever  yours, 

Edwin. 

TO    WILLIAM   BISPHAM. 

Boston,  November  23,  1884. 
Dear  Will  : 

Early  and  late  rehearsals  and  hard  night  work  have 
prevented  my  writing  to  you  since  the  receipt  of  your 
letter  anent  Ficken  and  the  notes  and  queries.  The 
former  is  of  more  importance  than  the  latter  just  now. 
I  know  that  he  is  busy,  and  he  may  defer  the  design  till  too 
late  ;  I  believe  the  church  will  be  ready  early  in  the  spring. 
If  it  is  likely  to  be  a  bother  ('t  is  such  a  comparatively  un- 
important thing),  and  interferes  with  his  greater  work,  it 
had  better  be  sent  elsewhere.  Of  course  I  'd  rather  he  *d 
do  it,  but  I  don't  want  to  bore  him  with  such  a  small  job. 

We  are  settled,  and  feel  at  home  and  cozy.  Have  just 
returned  from  a  little  sociable  at  Mrs.  James  T.  Field's, 
where  we  had  a  very  pleasant  evening. 

Hope    you   will  be   coming  this   way   soon,   and   will 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  255 

"  pipe  "  here.     Thursday  I  've  asked  some  folks  to  tur- 
key with   us, —  the   Aldrichs  and  others, —  and  hope  to 
hear  that  Hutton  will  fill  the  "left"  stool  at  table. 
Edvvina  joins  me  in  dearest  regards  for  you  both. 

Ned. 

TO    HORACE   H.    FURNESS. 

Monday. 
Dear  Furness  : 

A  sleepless  night  caused  me  to  keep  my  bed  till  after 
one  o'clock,  and  I  am  drowsy  still. 

I  sent  my  dresser  to  explain  and  leave  my  apology 
about  noon.  Am  really  sorry  to  miss  my  usual  chat 
with  you.  To-morrow  we  dine  with  your  brother.  Shall 
I  call  on  you  first  ? 

If  the  weather  is  at  all  decent,  and  you  care  to  see  a 
portion  of  the  play  to-night,  I  will  be  happy  to  see  you 
at  "  Dunsinane." 

Inclosed   are   tickets  for   Polly's  box,  and  full  of  old 

Daddy  Lear's  love  for  her. 

Adieu.  Tiredly  yours, 

E.  B. 

TO    DR.  THOMAS  W.  PARSONS. 

Thursday. 
My  dear  Mr.  Parsons: 

Pray  forgive  my  negligence  this  morning  when  your 
card  came.  I  was  very  busy,  and  I  told  the  bearer  to 
excuse  me  to  the  sender,  without  looking  at  the  card. 
Some  time  after  I  did  look  at  the  card,  and  was  mad 
enough  to  kick  myself  for  my  stupidity. 

I  hope  to  see  you,  as  I  always  do  when  I  come  to 
Boston;  but  to-day  I  will  be  busy  with  a  rehearsal,  and 
afterward  I  go  to  some  reception  with  my  dau};hter. 

Scrawled  in  great  haste,  but  with  sincere  regards,  by 
Yours  faithfully,  Edwin  liooth. 


256  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TO  W.   II.  r.   I'lIYFE. 

Boston,  April  30,  '85. 
W.  11.  r.  PiiYFE,  Esq. 

Diiir  Sir:  First  thanking  you  for  your  book,  which 
has  interested  me,  let  me  correct  your  impression  that 
I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  principles  of  the  art  of 
pronunciation.  I  am  ?iot.  But  I  can  see  enough  in 
your  skilful  treatment  of  the  subject  to  appreciate  its 
value  and  to  indorse  your  work  as  a  most  serviceable 
aid  to  all  who  wish  to  speak  our  language  correctly. 

Yours  truly,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    HORACE    II.    FURNESS. 

29  Chestnut  street,  Boston,  May  12,  1885. 

My  dear  Furness: 

Ever  since  I  left  you  I  have  been  pacing  the  "  Rialto,"  my 
gaberdine  wrapped  about  me,'  but  with  eyes  fixed  on  the 
"  Sagittary."  In  other  words,  I  have  been  thinking  more 
of  lago  than  of  Shy  lock.  In  Act  III  I  made  some  remark 
regarding  Desdemona's  boldness  which,  I  'm  sure,  does 
not  express  viy  opinion  of  her.  I  was  lago  when  I  wrote 
it,  not  my  cold-blooded  self;  his  opinion  of  the  "guinea- 
hen  "  influenced  me  when  I  said  "  she  was  bolder  than  her 
father  supposed."  My  own  notion  is  that  in  the  very  ex- 
travagance of  innocence  she  exclaimed  impulsively,  I  wish 
"  that  Heaven  had  made  me  such  a  man,"  not  appreciating 
the  dangerous  nature  of  her  words;  and  even  when  she 
said,  "  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her,"  etc.,  it  was  in 
courtesy  —  not  inconsistent  with  the  paddling  of  palms, 

1  At  Mr.  Furness's  desire,  my  father  had  aided  him  in  compiling  his  Variorum 
on  Shakspere's  plays,  by  explaining  many  subtle  points  in  his  own  interpretation 
of  Shaksperian  characters. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  257 

which  was  a  common  custom  of  the  time,  and  thought 
innocent — except  by  lago.    I  think  that  Othello,  as  guile- 
less and  impulsive  as  Desdemona,  mistook  her  meaning  for 
his  "  cue,"  or  "  hint,"  to  speak.      I  am  sure,  too,  that  she 
burned  with  shame  when  she  realized  what  she  had  un- 
consciously done  in  the  way  of  wooing,  and  maybe  cried 
herself  to  sleep  that  night ;  but  for  all  that  she  did  not 
refuse  the  suit  of  him  whose  mental  beauty  was  affined  to 
her  own.     She  saw  Othello  s  visage  in  his  mind  ;  had  she 
not  been  similarly  endowed  she  might  have  been  fasci- 
nated, as  school-girls  are  by  actors,  preachers,  and  the  like, 
asked  for  his  autograph,  giggled,  and  said  "  Yes  " — to  re- 
pent at  leisure.    She  never  repented  her  love  and  marriage, 
not  tho'  it  killed  her  father:   even  in  her  own  death  she 
was  firm  in  her  devotion  to  him  to  whose  "  honors  and 
valiant  parts "    she   had   consecrated   her  very   soul.      (I 
might  say  something  here  anent  the  "  marriage  of  true 
minds,"  but   I   forget  the    passage.)     She    was    not   the 
darling  "  daisy  "  we  see  upon  the  stage,  in  white  satin  of 
the  latest  cut,  and  wax  pearls,  gabbling  the  precious  text 
bv  rote ;  but  a  true  woman,  with  a  mind  of  her  own,  a 
deathly  devotion  to  the  man  of  her  choice,  and  as  pure  and 
artless  as  a  baby.      'T  is  absurd  for  me  to  say  this  to  you, 
who  know  more  of  Shakspere  in  a  moment  than   I   'vc 
learned  in  thirty  years;  but  that  note  of  mine  (or  rather 
lago's  comment  on  it)  distresses  me,  and  I  want  you  to 
understand  me  rightly.     I  am  slow  at  expression,  and  get 
awfully  mixed  at  times,  frequently  conveying  the  very 
opposite  idea  to  what  I  intend,  and  often  forget  the  very 
gist  of  my  subject.      But  this  you  will  understand  and  be- 
lieve of  me :   if  my  notions  concerning  the  two  characters 
of  Shakspere  that  I  have  given  any  thought  to  "  have  any 
power  to  move  you  "  to  the  pursuit  of  your  great  object, 
I  am  happily  rewarded,  and  ask  "  no  doit  of  usance  "  for 
my  twaddle  in  the  form  of  commendation,  other   than 


25S  EDWIN    IJOOTH 

)-oiir  own,  pri\atcly  ij^ivon,  j)roucl  as  I  would  be  if  merely 
glanced  at  ia  the  progress  of  your  work.  Now  't  is  day- 
light, and  I  am  going  to  bed,  with  my  gaberdine  about 
me,  and  w  ill  cuddle  up  with  SJiylock  till  I  lose  him  in 
sleep.  I  w  ish  I  could  describe  to  you  the  white-lipped, 
icy  smile,  the  piercing  glance  at  Othello's  half-averted 
face,  and  the  eager  utterance  with  which  my  father  spoke 
the  lines,  "Ay,  there  's  the  point:  as  to  be  bold  with 
you,"  etc,  but  I  cannot ;  and  if  I  could  at  any  time,  I 
would  not  attempt  to  do  so  now — I  am  too  sleepy. 

You  made  Edwina  happy  to-day.  I  think  she  wrote 
her  acknowledgment  of  your  beautiful  gift.  My  love  to 
"  Polly,  the  dearest  craft  in  the  world,"  and  to  her  papa 
and  big  brother.  Present  my  compliments  to  Miss  Lo- 
gan, I  prythee,  and  believe  me  ever  and  for  aye, 

Thine  own,  Edwin  Booth. 

P.  S.  Though  I  have  failed  to  mention,  I  have  not  for- 
gotten, your  good  brother  and  his  wife,  to  whom  my 
kindest  regards. 

TO    MISS   J.  L.  GILDER. 

29  Chestnut  street,  Boston,  May  27,  1885. 
My  dear  Miss  Gilder  : 

Some  weeks  ago  I  was  rash  enough  to  promise  you 
that  I  would  consider  the  suggestion  you  then  made 
relative  to  my  undertaking  a  literary  effort  in  the  way  of 
a  preface  or  introduction  to  some  dramatic  work  you 
are  about  to  edit. 

I  have  considered  the  subject  thoroughly,  and  am 
more  convinced  now  than  ever  before  that  my  little 
talent  lies  not  in  that  direction,  and  that  it  would  be  the 
height  of  folly  in  me  to  attempt  it.  Believe  me,  if  it  were 
possible  for  me  to  produce  the  least  tolerable  article,  you 
should  have  it,  and   I  would   be  vainer  of  its  acceptance 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  259 

by  you  than  any  theatrical  success  has  made  me.  But, 
alas  !  I  must  plod  along  in  my  beaten,  narrow  path,  nor 
turn  aside  to  gather  other  bays  than  those  within  the 
limit  assigned  me  by  the  mimetic  art.  This,  I  am  sure, 
you  are  convinced  of,  and  will  forgive,  I  hope,  the  weak- 
ness which  prompted  me  to  promise  that  I  would  even 
consider  the  possibility  of  my  undertaking  a  task  so  en- 
tirely beyond  my  ability  to  accomplish. 

Forgive  my  delay  in  communicating  with  you  on  this 
subject.      I  have  recently  had  many  distractions,  which 
have  prevented  me  from  many  important  duties.     Trust- 
ing this  may  cause  no  serious  inconvenience,  I  am 
Sincerely  and  with  great  respect 

Very  truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO    HORACE    H.  FURNESS. 

Newport,  June  30,  1885. 
My  dear  Furness: 

.  .  Since  Edwina's  departure,  I  have  been  some- 
what depressed,  of  course,  although  I  have  received  fre- 
quent assurances  from  her  that  she  is  well  and  very 
happy,  and  many  friends  have,  by  visits  and  invitations, 
done  much  to  distract  my  thoughts  —  too  much,  indeed, 
for  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  to  give  any  attention 
to  Shylock. 

I  fear  that  I  can  be  of  no  service  to  you  in  dealing 
with  the  "Merchant."  Somehow  I  can  feel  no  sort  of 
inspiration  or  spirituality  in  the  atmosphere  of  that  play. 
Shylock  seems  so  earthy  that  the  little  gleams  of  light  that 
I  have  perceived  while  acting  some  other  parts  arc  absent, 
and  I  can  sec  no  more  than  what  is  clear  to  the  "  naked 
eye."  However,  I  will  tug  at  him  during  the  summer; 
in  the  mean  time  let  me  be  assured  that  you  are  bravely 
and  cheerfully  "  pegging  away  "  at  "  Otliello." 


26o  KDWIN    BOOTH 

l''or  the  first  time  in  several  weeks  I  am  alone  ;  a  batch 
of  guests  left  me  this  afternoon,  and  for  three  days  I 
shall  be  free  to  answer  a  vast  number  of  letters  that  have 
been  accumulating  till  they  "  dread  "  me. 

Give  my  love,  with  a  kiss,  to  the  dear  little  girl,  and  to 
your  father  my  sincere  sympathy  and  condolences. 

Affectionately  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    HORACE    H.    FURNESS. 

Newport,  August  12,  1885. 

MV   DEAR    FURNESS: 

For  many  days  and  nights  your  neglected  letters  have 
glared  reproachfully  at  me,  as  I  have  sat  listlessly  at  my 
desk,  promising  to  answer  them  "  to-morrow,  and  to- 
morrow, and  to-morrow."  In  vain  have  I  endeavored 
to  conjure  up  the  spirit,  though  I  have  long  longed  to 
write  to  you.  Many  guests  and  many  visits  have  de- 
prived me  of  the  quiet  dream-time  I  hoped  to  have  this 
summer,  consequently  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  any- 
thing for  Shylock.  I  must  be  in  "harness  "  for  that  sort 
of  work.  But  I  'm  really  afraid  that  I  can  render  little 
service  to  you  in  that  part.  I  've  had  no  "  fancies  "  while 
acting  it.  I  may,  perhaps,  be  able  to  give  you  a  few  tra- 
ditional bits  of  "  stage  business"  —  nothing  more. 

Of  course  I  forgot  to  erase  "  Montano,"  and  give  the 
line  to  one  of  the  gentlemen,   as  you  supposed. 

Your  note  on  father's  reading  of  the  passage  in  the 
third  act  is  excellently  put ;  and  what  you  say  of  the 
pain  upon  my  forehead  is  decidedly  correct;  one  would 
not  say  a  pain  upon  his  heart.  I  must  use  a  different 
tone  of  voice  and  gesture  from  what  I  have  employed  for 
that  line.  After  "  I  '11  not  believe  it,"  I  have  spoken 
what  follows  very  tenderly,  or  sadly,  rather,  until  (after 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  26 1 

leaving  her  as  going  to  the  dinner  within)  "  Come,  I  'II 
go  in  with  thee,"  when  my  voice  and  manner  change, 
showing  the  fullest  confidence,  etc.  In  the  other  instance 
I  fancied  that  my  emphasis  got  me  out  of  the  difficulty : 
"  Not  knowing  what  is  stol'n  ...  let  him  not  know 
it,"  etc.  But  this  may  be  grossly  wrong.  I  thought,  too, 
that  the  repetition  of  a  word  was  of  frequent  occurrence 
in  Shakspere.  I  like  your  "  missing"  better  than  "lack- 
ing," but  anything  rather  than  "wanting."  I  am  glad  that 
you  are  progressing  so  bravely  with  "  Othello."  Do  as 
you  please  with  my  notes,  and  don't  consider  me  in  the 
least  in  any  way.  I  am  only  too  happy  to  know  that  I 
have  rendered  you  the  little  aid  which  you  so  generously 
acknowledge;  that  's  all  I  hoped  for,  and  you  have  amply 
repaid  me.    ,    .    . 

Please  give  Walter  my  loving  thanks  for  his  valuable 
and  interesting  gift,  which  all  who  have  seen  it  covet. 
Did  not  Mrs.  Furness  publish  her  "  Concordance  "  to  the 
Sonnets,  or  were  they  printed  merel}'  for  private  circula- 
tion ?  If  the  former,  where  can  I  get  the  book  ?  Give 
the  "Tomboy,"  from  me,  more  kisses  than  the  birds  she 
bagged,  with  a  father's  "  God  bless  her."  My  own  darling 
sends  frequent  and  loving  messages,  and  promises  to  be 
home  by  September  20.      I  long  for  her  return. 

What  you  say  of  your  father  is  very  beautiful;  pra)' 
remember  me  most  kindly  to  him. 

To  thee  and  all  thy  household,  peace  and  benediction. 
Yours  ever,  Edwin  Booth. 

P.  S.     I  wish  you  could  be  here  for  a  few  days  with  me. 

Newport,  September  9,  1885. 
My  dear  Furness: 

On  my  return  from  Greenwich,  yesterday,  I  found  the 
"  Concordance  "  and  two  notes  from  you.     Thanking  you 

17* 


!t)2  EDWIN    BOOTH 


111 


ost  cordially  for  the  former,  I  hasten  to  answer  the 
queries  of  the  latter — so  far  as  I  am  able  to  do  so;  the 
chances  are  that  1  will  make  a  worse  mess  of  the  matter 
than  as  it  stands  at  present. 

Act  1,  scene  III  —  I  think  it  better  to  omit  the 
scene,  as  it  is  given  in  my  prompt-book  version  of  the 
play.  Only  a  (cw  lines  of  it  are  usually  spoken  by  the 
Dtiki\  but  at  Booth's  Theatre  I  introduced  all  the  dia- 
logue between  the  senators,  in  a  front  scene,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  setting  the  senate-room  behind  ;  but  since  then  I 
have  omitted  it  and  dropped  the  curtain  at 

"  Bond  slaves  and  pagans  shall  our  statesmen  be." 

I  am  afraid  that  the  prompt-book  is  confusing,  for,  if 
I  remember  rightly,  there  are  several  transpositions;  I 
have  no  copy  with  me  to  refer  to.  The  setting  of  the 
stage,  Act  III,  is  meager  according  to  prompt-book; 
but  I  rely  upon  scenery,  furniture,  "  props "  that  each 
theatre  may  afford.  Sometimes  the  scene  is  elaborately 
set  :  at  Booth's  the  stage  was  filled  with  appropriate  ar- 
ticles, such  as  bales  of  goods,  a  cannon,  flag-stafifs,  etc,  ; 
for  there  I  played  the  scene  in  front  of  the  castle,  simply 
because  I  wished  to  save  stage  waits,  and  really  had  no 
time  to  construct  a  proper  interior,  I  have  changed  all 
that.  I  emphasize  "  ^rt//5^  "/  but  I  agree  with  White'  — 
it  is  a  puzzling  line,  to  me  at  least. 

I  think  Rodcrigo  should  be  disguised,  and  at  Irving's 
theatre  the  actor  did  wear  a  beard  after  the  first  act. 
But  as  reference  to  it  is  omitted  in  the  acting  versions, 
and  as  Cassio  and  Roderigo  do  not  meet  except  in  a 
drunken  quarrel  (they  do  not  carouse  together),  and  as 
lago  says,  ^'Cassio  knows  you  not,"  the  disguise  seems  un- 
necessary ;  but  it  should  be  worn,  for  I  think  his  threat 
to  make  himself  known  to  Desdemoiia  refers  to  that.     I 

1  The  late  Mr.  Richard  Grant  White,  the  noted  Shaksperian  scholar. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  26 


»> 


had  forgotten  Gould's  reference  to  father's  use  of  the  hand- 
kerchief; all  I  can  say  of  it  is  —  G.  is  wrong :  father  never 
did  anything  of  the  kind.  /  formerly  did,  and  G.  got  con- 
fused, supposing  I  followed  my  father's  business  closely. 
I  reminded  him  of  several  points  which  had  escaped  his 
memory  (some  of  them,  too,  were  the  most  striking)  in 
more  than  one  play.  Since  Gould  has  noted  this  point 
so  particularly,  it  would  be  better  to  let  my  "  note  "  pass 
out,  I  think.  I  must  have  been  very  much  mixed  in  the 
last  scene,  if  I  said  the  noise  refers  to  the  street  fight.  I 
think  it  means  the  noise  of  Dcsdcvionas  struggle  with 
Othello,  and  their  voices  during  it  (Irving  referred  it  to 
Emilia's  knocking).  "  Shall  she  come  in  ?  "  She  {Emilia) 
must  have  heard  Desdcmo?ia's  cries  and  Othello's  angry 
voice  —  "The  noise  was  high,"  etc. 

I'm  glad  you  changed  "ottoman  "to  "divan";  I  could  not 
think  of  the  proper  word.  As  for  the  fight  between  Cas- 
sio  and  Rodcrigo,  I  am  in  a  snarl :  I  did  not  think  of  the 
danger  to  lago  thzt  Roderigo' s  trial  would  cause.  He  dis- 
abled Cassio  to  aid  Roderigo  in  killing  him  ;  he  was  the 
most  important  obstacle  to  be  removed  from  his  path,  and 
he  "  took  the  chances  "  to  be  rid  of  Rodcrigo  later,  if  Cassia 
failed  to  kill  him.  lago  is  determined  that  Cassio  must  die 
that  night,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  he  regards  Roderigo' s 
case  of  less  importance — as  something  to  be  disposed  of 
afterward.  This  is  all  that  I  can  do  to  wriggle  out  of  that 
difficulty,  and  I  'm  afraid  I  'vc  made  the  matter  worse. 

I  've  had  little  opportunity  this  summer  for  thinking  of 
serious  affairs,  having  had  a  succession  of  visitors  when 
not  making  visits ;  whenever  a  calm  occurred,  I  was  too 
weary  to  read  or  write  —  indeed,  I  have  answered  most 
of  my  correspondence  by  telegraph,  to  spare  myself  the 
labor  of  writing  letters. 

I  can  well  understand  how  much  you  must  liavc  suf- 
fered all  this  while.      God  bless  and  comfort  }'ou  ! 


264  EUWIN    lU^OTH 

S/iyloc/:  haunts  inc  like  a  nit;htniarc :  I  can't  mount 
tlie  animal  —  lor  such  I  consider  Shylock  to  be. 

I  made  an  cftbrt  to  t;ct  at  him  through  G.  F.  Cooke's 
notes  on  his  own  acting  of  the  part,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  how  he  was  influenced  by  tradition.  He  acknow- 
ledged having  followed  Macklin  in  much  that  he  was 
praised  for  in  this  part,  and  I  've  no  doubt  that  Macklin 
followed  his  predecessors  —  I  mean  those  who  performed 
Shylock  before  it  was  made  a  farce  of  by  Lord  Lansdowne, 
or  whoever  it  was  that  doctored  the  play.  My  effort  was 
a  vain  one.  I  will  try  again  before  the  "call-boy"  sum- 
mons me  to  work. 

I  hope  you  will  have  remembered  to  send  me  the  pho- 
totype you  kindly  promised  for  the  "Concordance"  —  I 
shall  prize  it  very  dearly.  A  son  of  Dr.  Francis  who 
had  Cooke's  skull — you  may  remember — sent  me  a  tooth 
of  the  great  George  Frederick,  which  I  shall  have  set  in 
the  frame  of  an  ivory  miniature  which  Cooke  had  painted 
for  old  "  Bobby  "  Maywood,  who,  as  you  know,  was  an 
early  manager  in  Philadelphia.  His  daughter  gave  it  me 
many  years  ago. 

My  love  goes  with  this  for  you  and  all  who  arc  dear  to 
you.  Forever  thine,         Edwin  Booth. 


TO    MR.  BENJAMIN    C.  MIFFLIN. 

_  28  East  iqth  street,  Jan'y  5,  1886. 

Dear  Sir: 

Pardon  my  delay  in  acknowledging  your  favor  of  Dec. 
26.  I  appreciate  your  kindness,  and  thank  you  for  send- 
ing me  the  article. 

The  editor's  remarks  upon  it  were  very  just.  I  deserved  a 
kick  for  torturing  my  friend  wnth  Miss  C 's  contortions. 

Please  present  my  compliments  to  Col.  Bartlett,  and 
believe  me.  Very  sincerely  yours,  E.  Booth. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  265 

TO    COLONEL   LAWRENCE. 

February  15,  1886. 
Dear  Colonel  Lawrence  : 

I  regret  not  seeing  you.  I  found  your  card  with  no 
address,  and  therefore  have  not  been  able  to  acknowledge 
your  call  (I  never  dream  of  looking  in  the  directory  till 
some  one  suggests  it) ;  having  obtained  it  from  your 
brother,  I  now  apologize  for  my  seeming  indifference, 
and  ask  your  aid  in  forwarding  the  accompanying  letter 
to  "  little  "  Launt.  I  have  not  his  mother's  address.  I 
have  not  seen  or  heard  of  Launt  for  a  very  long  time  — 
not  since  the  summer  when  he  visited  me  at  Newport. 

I  was  delighted  to  see  Mrs.  Lawrence  and  Gertrude  in 
Boston,  but  regretted  that  I  could  show  them  no  hos- 
pitality, or  even  the  courtesy  of  calling  on  them,  my  time 
being  so  occupied  and  my  daughter  so  unwell. 

I  hope  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before  I 
leave  the  city.  Truly  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 

TO    HORACE   H.    FURNESS. 

29  Chestnut  street,  Boston,  March  23,  1886. 
Dear  Furness: 

I  send  with  this  the  volume  containing  my  dear  friend 
Ewer's  story  of  "  Spiritism."  Mrs.  Ewer  sent  it  by  her 
son  the  day  after  my  arrival  in  New  York,  but  he  woukl 
not  leave  it  with  the  servant.  Not  receiving  it,  as  ac- 
cording to  her  note  I  should  have  done,  I  wrote  her 
again,  fearing  the  book  was  lost.  I  received  it  here,  and 
have  read  the  story ;  it  may  not  be  of  service  to  you,  but 
I  send  it  at  all  events.  Will  you  kindly  return  it  to  Mrs. 
E.,  New  York,  and  charge  me  exprcssage  ? 


266  EDWIN    BOOTH 

I  '11  pay  you  when  we  meet  again.  Mrs.  E.  says  that 
her  husband  deeply  regretted  what  he  termed  a  young 
man's  foil}'  in  dealing  so  unjustly  with  so  good  a  man  as 
Judge  li.      It  may  be  of  use. 

Give  my  lo\'e  to  dear  Polly,  to  W.,  and  their  papa, 
with  compliments  to  Miss  L.  Yours  ever, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO 


St.  Paul,  Sept.  30,  1886. 

Dear  N.  : 

I  received  all  your  letters — three;  but  as  I  have 
been  flying  about  from  town  to  town,  living  in  a  trunk,  as 
it  were,  I  thought  I  would  wait  till  I  reached  Chicago, 
where  I  shall  be  fixed  for  two  weeks,  before  I  began  any 
correspondence  with  any  one  except  my  daughter,  to 
whom  I  write  often. 

I  am  very  happy,  dear  N.,  that  my  little  aid  ^  was  so 
timely,  and  I  thank  God  that  you  came  foremost  to  my 
mind  as  I  read  the  fearful  news.  Had  I  dreamed,  how- 
ever, that  my  letter  would  be  published,  I  would  have 
worded  it  more  carefully;  but  I  know  you  did  it  for  the 
best,  and  perhaps  the  publicity  of  it  induced  others  to  "chip 
in."    .    .    .    God  grant  the  danger  and  trouble  are  past! 

This  hotel  ink  and  paper  are  vexatious  ;  if  my  business 
continues  good  I  '11  buy  some  better  material.  My  tour 
thus  far  has  been  very  agreeable,  and  my  health  is  good. 
I  have  some  thirty-five  weeks  yet  to  fill,  and  a  vast  deal 
of  travel  before  me. 

Give  my  love  to  wife  and  family,  and  believe  me, 
dear  N.,  Sincerely  yours, 

Ned. 

Sorry  I  can't  get  near  Charleston  on  my  tour. 

1  The  "little  aid  "  above  referred  to  was  a  check  for  $1000. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  267 

TO   HORACE    H.  FURNESS. 

Cleveland,  Oct.  27,  1886. 
Dear  "Pop"  of  "Polly": 

I  do  not  intend  this  to  be  an  answer  to  your  letter,  but 
merely  an  acknowledgment  of  your  bag  o'  nuts,  which,  bar- 
rin'  the  wormy  ones,  were  a  toothsome  feast.'  I  hope  Polly 
is  resigned  to  her  fate,  and  has  learned  to  like  her  school, 
and  that  the  travelers  are  home  again  —  dogs  and  all. 

My  tour  has  been  tediously  successful,  but  I  suspect 
that  my  New  York  engagement  will  break  the  monotony 
of  full  houses  ;  I  am  not  so  much  of  a  novelty  there.  Hard 
work  is  doing  me  much  good,  but  a  wretched  cold  has 
bothered  me  for  many  days. 

With  thanks  to  Miss  L.,  and  affectionate  remembrances 
for  you  all, 

I  am  "fondly  thine  own,"  E.  B. 

TO    OLIVER   I.    LAY. 

Balto.,  Jan.  20,  '87. 
My  DEAR  Mr.  Lay: 

From  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Bispham,  who  was  with 
me  yesterday,  on  his  way  to  Washington,  I  learned  that 
he  greatly  admires  your  portrait  of  myself  Wishing 
to  gratify  him,  and  at  the  same  time  to  be  of  some 
slight  service  to  you,  if  you  will  permit  me,  I  inclose  ni}- 
check  for  the  picture,  which,  if  not  already  disposed  of,  I 
request  you  to  send  to  his  address.  No.  12  West  iSth  St., 
with  my  compliments.  I  have  not  said  a  word  to  him 
of  this,  and  would  like  to  surprise  him  on  his  return  home. 

1  This  refers  to  a  bag  of  chinquapins,  which  Mr.  Booth  said  ho  had  not  (asird 
since  his  childhood  in  Maryland,  and  he  longed  to  revive  the  memory.     A$  wc 

had  several  bushes  at  Wallingford,  Miss gathered  some  of  the  nuts  and  sent 

them  to  him. 


268  EDWIN    BOOTH 

The  anunint  inclosed  is  more  than  he  mentioned  as  the 
price  that  you  were  wilhnL;'  to  let  him  have  the  picture 
for,  but  I  trust  that  you  will  permit  me  to  set  the  rate, 
which  is  still  much  below  its  true  value. 

Sincerely  wishing  you  success  and  good  health, 

I  am  truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

(After  the  play)  Sat.  night, 

Baltimore,  Jan.  22,  1887. 
My  dear  Whitridge: 

Your  very  kind  note  of  invitation  to  lunch  or  dine  with 
you  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith  was  handed  to  me  just  as  I 
was  leaving  the  house  to  make  some  calls,  long  overdue, 
and  I  did  not  get  a  chance  to  read  it  till  on  my  way 
in  the  carriage.  The  two  performances  to-day  and  this 
evening  kept  me  too  busy  to  acknowledge  your  kindness, 
which  I  now  do,  having  just  returned  from  the  theatre, 
very  tired.  I  regret  that  I  shall  be  far  on  ^the  road  to 
Pittsburg  to-morrow,  instead  of  at  your  table.  I  leave 
the  city  at  9  o'clock  A.  M.  Pray  present  my  thanks  and 
sincere  regards  to  your  son  and  daughter,  and  believe  me 
Truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO   HORACE   H.  FURNESS. 

Cincinnati,  January  31,  1887. 
My  dear  Furness  : 

Hold  on !  The  Jew  came  to  me  last  evening,  just  as 
I  was  leaving  Pittsburg,  and  stayed  with  me  all  night,  on 
the  sleeping-car,  whence  sleep  was  banished,  and  I  think 
I  've  got  him  by  the  beard,  or  tiose,  I  know  not  which; 
but  I  '11  hang  on  to  him  a  while,  and  see  what  he  '11  do 
for  me.     I  '11  have  his  pound  of  flesh  if  I  can  get  it  off  his 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  269 

old  bones.      I  'm  jolly  tired  to-day,  having  had  no  sleep 
(not  even  my  nap)  since  Saturday  night. 

The  business  in  Pittsburg  was  immense,  and  bids  lair 
to  be  the  same  here. 

I  send  you  all  the  itinerary  I  have  left  —  a  dirty  one: 
but  I  give  thee  all ;   I  can  no  more. 

Love  to  Polly  and  all  your  dear  ones ;  kind  regards  to 
Miss  L.,  and  a  hug  for  yourself.  Otway  says,  "  I  never 
liked  these  huggers  "  (or  words  to  such  effect) :  no  matter, 
give  us  a  shake.  By  the  by,  how  did  you  enjoy  the 
Elephant's  hind  legs  ?  Made  they  a  feast  of  reason,  and 
sich  ?  Well,  well,  well  !  However,  I  can't  blame  a 
Shaksperian  for  fleeing  from  Gibber  to  "  'way  down  in 
Dixie." 

You  see  I  had  my  eye  on  you,  even  from  far-off 
Bosworth  Field. 

Adieu ;  and  may  Christ  be  before  thee,  behind  thee, 
and  round  about  thee  ! 

Yours  ever,  Edwin  Booth. 


San  Francisco,  March  13 
(Midnight),  1887. 
Dear  H.  H.  F.  : 

Ages  ago  —  from  Memphis,  I  think  —  I  sent  you  a 
marked  prompt-book  of  "  Merchant  of  Venice,"  together 
with  a  learned  lecture  on  the  character  of  Shy  lock.  Did 
you  get  it,  and  was  it  of  any  use  ?  I  suspect  not.  I 
have  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  two  Chinese  theatres, 
where  I  hoped  for  a  solution  of  the  Ilavilct  problem  — 
or,  at  least,  to  gather  points  for  my  next  attempt  at  that 
knotty  part.  But  the  Pee-kec-wec-kins  failed  to  eluci- 
date, and  I  am  still  in  the  mist.  They  were,  however, 
quite  as  clear  as  many  of  that  dismal  gent's  critics  arc. 


270  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Now,  don't  wince;  your  withers  are  unwrung.  Some 
years  aL;o  1  passed  several  days  and  nights  in  a  lunatic 
as\hini  —  as    a    guest    only — of   my   old    friend   Doctor 

K ,  and   eccentric   as   the   gabble   and   antics   of  the 

patients  were,  they  aftbrded  me  more  edification  than  did 
these  pla}-fellows  of  mine  give  me  this  night.  First  the 
tragedy  theatre,  then  to  the  comedy  house.  I  could  not 
decide  which  was  the  more  doleful  and  ludicrous.  The 
noise  and  stench  of  both  were  barbaric  in  the  extreme, 
but  their  costumes  were  gorgeous.  I  and  my  party 
mingled  with  the  actors  on  the  stage,  and  smoked  (as  did 
the  large  audience)  while  the  play  was  in  progress.  From 
the  stages  of  each  theatre  we  went  below,  to  cellar  under 
cellar,  and  entered  their  opium-dens,  kitchens  (which, 
strange  to  say,  were  clean),  and  I  was  amazed  to  see  the 
filth  and  the  mere  closets,  with  no  ventilation,  in  which 
these  animals  lived.  No  women,  except  the  family  of 
half  a  dozen  which  occupied  a  side  box  of  the  one  tier 
above  the  pit.     Then  to  several  gambling-holes. 

I  shall  smell  of  opium  and  horrid  odors  till  I  get  rid 
of  my  clothes;  't  will  require  more  than  an  ounce  of 
civet  to  sweeten  my  imagination.  I  "  topped  off"  my 
night's  debauch  with  some  delicious  tea  in  a  respectable 
and  finely  decorated  Chinese  restaurant,  where  some  fine 
heads  and  handsome  faces  greeted  us  politely,  while  we 
boorishly  gaped  at  several  groups  at  dinner. 

How  would  we  like  a  set  of  foreigners  to  intrude  thus 
on  our  privacy !  I  mentally  d — d  myself  the  while, 
and  doubtless  our  victims  cursed  us  aloud  during  our 
visit:  they  certainly  were  very  animated  in  conversa- 
tion, but  smiled  graciously.  No  more  Chinamen  in  mine, 
I  thankee. 

I  thought  it  my  bounden  duty  to  see  my  brethren  of 
the  sock  and  buskin  at  their  work,  and  am  quite  satisfied 
that  they  do  these  things  better  in  France  and  elsewhere  : 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIExXDS  27 1 

at  the  Baldwin  Theatre,  for  example,  where  my  horde  of 
mummers  disport  to  the  detriment  of  Wm.  the  Shaxper. 

My  tour  through  Texas,  in  the  private  car  "  David 
Garrick,"  was,  on  the  whole,  very  pleasant.  The  towns 
are  well  worth  a  visit  as  embryo  cities  of  wealth  and 
beauty ;  the  theatres  excellent,  hotels  ditto,  and  the  au- 
diences very  cultured  and  in  full  dress. 

A  superb  mirage  (of  water  and  islands  and  snow- 
capped mountains)  rendered  the  long  trip  over  the  hot 
sandy  desert  quite  interesting.  Cow-boys,  cactus,  and 
greasers  are  plentiful  thereabouts ;  but  from  Avhat  I  saw 
of  them,  I  should  say  the  cactus  is  the  most  dangerous 
of  the  three  nuisances. 

Great  crowds  greeted  me  at  every  place,  and  I  was 
showered  with  flowers  (and  begging  letters)  wherever  I 
acted.  My  great  wealth  and  unbounded  munificence  had 
preceded  me  ;  but  I  was  treated  royally. 

Here,  the  nursery  of  my  professional  babj'hood,  the 
enthusiasm  is  tall,  'way  up,  and  it  makes  me  wonder 
whether  I  'm  a  diva,  and  don't  know  it,  or  a  mere 
mummer. 

"Hamlet,"  all  last  week,  packed  the  theatre  at  larger 
prices  than  ever  paid  except  for  opera,  and  they  want 
more  of  it,  in  spite  of  my  antique  appearance  as  the 
"youthful  Prince."  I  must  go  back  to  Denmark  after 
this  week.  Is  Shakspere  dead  ?  Is  the  drama  utterly 
depraved,  or  overwhelmed  by  the  high  jinks  of  variety- 
shows  and  the  maudle  of  society  plays  ?  Nein,  my  littcl 
fre'n' ;  nein,  ag'in,  nine  times  ofer  !  Now,  don't  think  the 
Chinaman's  tea  has  diseased  my  wit. 

Good  night.     Love  to  your  loved  ones,  et  vous. 

K.  T.   W. 


272  EDWIN   BOOTH 

TC    MRS.   ELIZABETH    SAUNDERS. 

San  Francisco,  April  i,  1887. 
Dear  'Liz'beth  : ' 

Since  you  're  1887  years  old  Monday,  I  just  thought  I 
would  leave  behind  me  a  little  birthday  reminder  for  you, 
you  dear  old  party  ! 

Hope  you  '11  have  a  long  lifetime  of  just  such  happy 
months  as  you  say  this  has  been,  and  then,  when  I 
return  next  season,  I  shall  find  you  just  as  young  and 
chipper  as  now  you  "is."         Affectionately, 

Ted. 

TO    HORACE    H.  FURNESS. 

Lynn,  June  28,  1887. 
Dear  Furness: 

At  last  my  house  is  empty,  scrubbed,  and  locked,  the 
keys  in  the  office  of  an  agent,  who  will  sell  the  property 
for  me,  and  I  am  here  for  a  few  days  with  A . 

The  pipe,  dug  up  on  the  site  of  the  "  Mermaid  Tav- 
ern," and  sent  to  me  by  a  friend  in  London,  so  delighted 
me  that  I  could  find  no  vent  for  my  feelings  save  through 
the  medium  of  my  forecas'le  pun,  which  so  mystified  you. 
The  precious  relic  is  a  joy  to  me.  Of  course  it  's  genu- 
ine, that  I  know ;  the  darling  "  mermaid  "  is  no  meer- 
scham  (ouch  !).  Although  't  is  but  a  bit  o'  senseless  clay, 
I  '11  treasure  it  as  something  rich  and  rare. 

A  double-headed  grandad  sends  his  blessings  and  con- 
gratulations to  you  and  your  dear  children  —  my  love 
to  them  ;  I  sent  yours  to  mine,  who  are  well  and  happy 
at  Newport.  Thanks  for  the  Seybert  report ;  it  is  very 
amusing.     Now  for  a  blast  from  the  spirits  for  you. 

1  Mrs.  Elizabeth  .Saunders,  one  of  the  oldest  actresses  in  the  country  (now  re- 
tired and  living  in  California),  and  one  of  my  father's  earliest  friends. 


^ 


W^m 


RDWIN    linOTM    IN    1889. 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  273 

I  'm  glad  you  found  something  useful  in  my  notes 
anent  Shylock, 

Have  you  read  Irving's  paper  in  the  "  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury "  ?  I  liked  it  very  much,  and  am  pleased  (and  amused) 
to  find  his  idea  of  Shy  lock  accords  with  mine,  as  expressed 
in  a  brief  reference  to  the  character,  toward  the  close  of 
his  article,  and  quite  different  from  the  opinion  formed  by 

Mr.  C from  I 's  performance  of  the  Jczi.>.     I  was  in 

Philadelphia  three  weeks  ago,  for  a  day  only,  to  see  my 
brother-in-law  C ,  who  is  in  this  country  on  business. 

Daughter  has   purchased  a  house  (formerly  H 's) 

on  Beacon  street,  and  I  shall  return  to  New  York,  where  I 
own  a  "  flat,"  and  there  reside  when  not  "  on  the  road." 

About  the  19th  of  September,  Barrett  and  I  start  to- 
gether for  an  extended  tour  of  the  South  and  West,  re- 
peating my  last  season's  trip,  visiting  Philadelphia,  of 
course,  when  we   hope   to  have  a  seance  with    you.     I 

coaxed  A to  taste  some  buttermilk  to-day,  and  he 

wryly  exclaimed,  "  'T  is  like  kissing  a  baby  !  "  Is  n't 
that  as  good  as  Thackeray's  remark  about  the  American 
oyster  ?  Now  I  '11  let  you  up.  I  have  punished  you 
enough  for  your  bad  conduct.  With  a  kiss  for  Polly  and 
love  for  you  all,   I  am  always  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 

Have  you  ever  heard  "  enow  "  used  in  modern  talk  for 
"  enough  "  ?  An  old  Yankee  "  gent  "  was  here  yester- 
day, and  so  pronounced  the  word.  I  never  met  it  (cno') 
out  of  blank  verse. 

TO    OLIVER   1.    LAY. 

Hoffmann  House,  Dec.  26,  i88S. 
My  dear  Mr.  Lay: 

I  have  heard  that  some  of  my  friends  anion^^-  Tlie 
Players  desire  to   compliment  me   by  placing  a  portr.ut 


2  74  EDWIN   BOOTH 

of  myself  (in  cliaractcr)  on  the  wall  of  the  club  reading- 
room  as  a  surprise  for  me  on  the  opening  night,  and  that 
your  Hamlet  has  been  suggested  for  that  purpose. 

On  some  other  occasion  I  could  not  decline  such  a 
manifestation  of  good  feeling,  but  under  present  circum- 
stances—  while  the  house  is  yet  my  own,  to  be  presented 
by  me  to  others  —  I  shrink  from  the  indelicacy  I  should 
be  guilty  of  were  I  to  permit  any  conspicuous  portrait  of 
myself  to  be  exhibited.  Therefore  I  request  your  non- 
compliance with  the  wishes  of  my  over-zealous  friends, 
who,  no  doubt,  will  consider  me  morbidly  sensitive  on  the 
subject.  I  may  be  so,  but  't  is  my  nature,  and  no  effort 
of  mine  can  overcome  my  aversion  of  anything  suggestive 
of  self-glorification  which  a  prominent  portrait  of  myself 
on  such  an  occasion  would  evince. 

Since  the  secret  has  "  leaked  out,"  and  I  am  no  longer 
a  stranger  to  their  diabolical  (I)  plot,  I  shall  request  the 
gentlemen  who  are  interested  in  the  well-meant  compli- 
ment to  spare  my  blushes  till  some  future  time,  when  the 
property  will  be  theirs  to  decorate  as  it  may  please  them 
best.  I  have  written  to  acquaint  you  with  my  feelings  on 
this  subject,  which  I  am  sure  you  will  respect. 

Very  truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

TO    COLONEL   LAWRENCE. 

The  Players,  i6  Gramercy  Park,  Jan.  4,  '89. 
My  dear  Colonel  Lawrence  : 

I  want  to  see  and  chat  with  you,  but  am  so  pressed  for 
time  that  I  cannot  set  any  hour  for  that  purpose. 

This  will  be  my  abiding-place  in  New  York  for  all 
future  time  that  may  be  mine,  and  I  hope  to  see  you 
here  as  a  member  of  The  Players.  Why  not?  I  'm 
sure  you  'd  like  it.      I  leave  town  Sunday  A.  M.,  and  till 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  275 

then  I  have  engagements  every  hour.  We  must  defer 
our  chat  till  my  return  to  New  York,  when  I  hope  to 
find  you  one  of  us. 

I  hope  your  family  and  Maria  are  well.  I  owe  her  a 
letter. 

Have  not  seen  or  heard  of  Launt  for  many  months. 

Adieu.      In  great  haste.  Yours  truly, 

Edwin  Booth. 

TO   MISS   TOPHAM. 

Pittsburg,  Jan.  8,  '89. 
My  dear  Miss  Topham: 

I  am  much  to  blame  for  not  acknowledging  your 
former  letter,  which  reached  me  duly,  but  which  I  some- 
how lost  or  destroyed,  in  the  hurry  of  frequent  packing 
and  moving  from  one  end  of  the  continent  to  the  other 
so  often.  Until  now  I  've  had  to  defer  response  to  your 
second,  of  December  27th,  so  busy  and  weary  have  I 
been  these  many  months.  The  absurd  report  anent 
my  grandson's  eyes  ^  has  no  foundation  whatever ;  both 
children  are  perfect  in  every  particular  —  full  of  health, 
beauty,  and  baby  charms.  Edwina  is  still  delicate,  but  is 
as  happy  and  as  well  as,  I  fear,  she  will  ever  be.  She 
has  a  cozy  little  house  on  the  Charles  River,  fronting  on 
Beacon  St.,  Boston,  and  a  pretty  cottage  at  Narragansctt 
Pier.  I  am  again  a  resident  of  New  York :  The  Players 
Club  is  my  home.  I  trust  that  Miss  McComb  is  restored 
to  health,  and  that  you  all  are  well  at  dear  old  Baywood. 
When  I  go  to  Greenwich  to  visit  Mr.  Benedict.  I  find  it 
very  difficult  to  leave  his  piazza,  except  to  sail  with  him 
about  the  Sound,  and  consequently  I  neglect  my  "  neigh- 
bors," visiting  no  one ;  but  next  time  I  hope  to  call  on 

lA   sensational  report  had  been  in  circulation  that  my  little  son,  Clarence 
Edwin  Booth,  had  been  born  blind. 


276  EDWIN    BOOTH 

you,   Miss  Joannic,  and   Madge,  of  whose  success  I  am 
very  glad  to  be  informed. 

My  poor  sister's '  death  was  a  relief  to  her.     She  had 
been  a  great  sufferer  from  gout  for  many  years. 

With  thanks  for  your  sympathy,  and  kind  regards  for 
you  all,  I  am  Very  truly  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 


TO    MRS.    WILLIAM    YOUNG. 

Narragansett  Pier,  R.  I.,  August  7,  '89. 

Dear  Madam :  I  must  express  my  happiness  in  being 
so  greatly  honored  by  the  ladies  of  Belair.  I  can  only 
say  that  I  most  gratefully  thank  you  all  for  what  I  con- 
sider T?;-^/  of  the  many  favors  that  Fortune  has  bestowed 
on  me. 

To  associate  my  father's  name  with  Belair,  his  loved 
home,  by  some  substantial  memorial  has  long  been  one 
of  my  dreams.  Although  the  generous  action  of  your  com- 
mittee has  made  the  son  the  recipient  of  that  honor — the 
fact  that  the  name  established  by  the  sire  will  be  so  nobly 
perpetuated  more  than  realizes  my  ambition's  dream,  and 
makes  me  doubly  grateful. 

You  have  my  full  consent  to  use  my  autograph  for  the 
benefit  of  your  bazaar,  and  I  regret  that  I  have  no  por- 
trait, save  a  few  photographs  made  some  years  ago. 
Gutekunst,  of  Arch  street,  Phila.,  may  have  photographs 
of  more  recent  date.      I  will  write  to  him  on  the  subject. 

Apologizing  for  my  delay  in  acknowledging  the  gracious 
action  of  my  Hartford  friends, 

I  am  sincerely  your  grateful  servant, 

Edwin  Booth. 

1  Mrs.  John  S.  Clarke. 


LETTERS   TO   HIS    FRIENDS  277 

TO   THOMAS. 

New  York,  Aug.  28,  '89. 
My  dear  Mr.  Thomas: 

I  was  surprised  to  learn  that  your  engagement  with 
Mr.  Barrett  is  terminated,  and  am  sorry  for  the  cause, 
altho'  I  believe  the  result  will  be  to  your  advantage. 
Your  chances  for  promotion  will  be  better  in  a  company 
that  is  not  confined  to  so  limited  a  repertoire  as  mine,  in 
which  so  few  opportunities  occur  for  the  proper  exercise 
of  youthful  talent.  A  frequent  change  of  role,  and  of  the 
lighter  sort, —  especially  such  as  one  does  not  like  forcing 
one's  self  to  use  the  very  utmost  of  his  ability  in  the  per- 
formance of, —  is  the  training  requisite  for  a  mastery  of 
the  actor's  art. 

I  had  seven  years'  apprenticeship  at  it,  during  which 
most  of  my  labor  was  in  the  field  of  comedy, — "  walking 
gentleman,"  burlesque,  and  low  comedy  parts, —  the  while 
my  soul  was  yearning  for  high  tragedy.  I  did  my  best 
with  all  that  I  was  cast  for,  however,  and  the  unpleasant 
experience  did  me  a  world  of  good.  Had  I  followed  my 
own  bent,  I  would  have  been,  long  ago,  a  "  crushed 
tragedian." 

I  will,  as  you  request,  give  you  a  line  to  Mr.  Palmer, 
and  I  hope  you  may  obtain  a  position  that  will  afford 
you  the  necessary  practice.     With  best  wishes, 

Truly  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 

To  Mrs.  Young,  Prcst.;  Miss  Spicer.  W  Prest. 

The  Players,  16  Gramcrcy  Park,  N.  ¥., 

Sept.  17,  '89. 

Dear  Ladies:  The  precious  souvenir  of  my  birthplace 
which  you  kindly  sent  me  was  an  agreeable  surpri.se  on 
my  return  to  the  city  yesterday.      I  thank  you  for  it  most 

i8* 


278  EDWIN    BOOTH 

sincerely.  The  tree  was  planted  by  my  father,  and  my 
earliest  memories  are  associated  with  it.  The  selection 
of  the  panel,  with  its  appropriate  device,  was  a  happy 
thought  of  the  artists,  and  its  decoration  a  delicate  and 
generous  one  on  the  part  of  the  ladies  who  have  so  favored 
me  —  no  other  token  of  appreciation  of  my  slight  service 
could  have  pleased  me  so  much.  It  shall  be  placed  be- 
neath the  portrait  of  my  father  which  now  faces  me,  on 
the  wall  above  my  desk,  as  a  constant  reminder  of  my 
happy  association  with  those  who  cherish  his  memory. 

Congratulating  you  on  the  result  of  your  undertaking, 
and  with  cordial  wishes  for  its  entire  success, 

I  am  respectfully  yours,  Edwin  Booth. 


TO    WILLIAM    BISPHAM. 

Cincinnati,  April  9,  1890. 

.  .  .  My  heart  aches  for  poor  Lay.  Let  the  inclosed 
go  toward  helping  him  toward  his  home ;  it  should 
have  gone  yesterday.  I  hope  his  case  is  not  so  des- 
perate. ...  So  hot  yesterday  I  put  on  my  summer 
duds,  and  was  uncomfortably  warm  in  the  shade;  to-day 
it  is  all  shade,  and  too  cold  for  open  windows — so  I  've 
had  it  for  several  weeks ;  in  St.  Louis  I  had  the  heaviest 
snow-storm  and  the  hottest  day  of  the  season  in  one  week. 
Edwina  has  got  as  far  as  Washington,  and  has  concluded 
to  remain  there  till  she  goes  to  New  York  instead  of 
stopping  in  Philadelphia.  To-day  her  boy  is  three  years 
high;  the  girl  touched  four  in  St.  Augustine  two  weeks 
ago.     "Darling,  I  'm  growing  old." 

Barrett  is  now  at  Nice,  will  go  to  Stuttgart  for  a  few 
days,  and  then  to  the  German  baths,  which  open  on  the 
1 8th.  He  complains  of  weakness,  but  is  cheerful,  and 
hopes  to  be  with  us  on  June  1st. 


BDWIN    booth's    dressing-room,  IIROADWAV  THKATKE,    DECEMDBR,    1889. 
Drawn  by  Arthur  Jules  Goudinan. 


2  So  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Have  no  news  for  you.  Business  and  ific  is  well,  but 
both  are  somewhat  tired  ;  we  pick  up  toward  the  close  of 
the  week,  I  notice. 

Your  and  Harry's  club  reports  delight  me.  "  Would  I 
were  with  thee  o'  Ladye  Daye " ;  tell  the  girls  my 
heart  's  among  'em,  anyway.  I  'm  too  bashful  to  appear 
in  "  propy-persony."     Adieu. 

Love  for  all  at  home.  Nedwin. 


Detroit,  April  15,  1890. 
Dear  Will: 

.  .  .  You  have  done  nobly  for  poor  Lay,  like  the 
dear,  noble  old  boy  that  you  are — "you  know  you  are." 
Bless  thee!  I  do  hope  the  club  will  buy  the  picture;  it 
would  complete  his  happiness  in  that  respect.  The  "Burr" 
is  a  superb  picture,  and  would  always  be  a  feature  in  the 
Century.  Put  me  down  for  whatever  the  deficit  may  be 
in  the  $2500  you  hope  to  get  for  it.  I  return  Warren's 
letter  and  the  telegram.    .    .    . 

Heavy  rain  and  thunder  about  3  A.  M.  brought  winter. 
Monday  \  friz  ;  since  when  it  has  been  lovely,  crisp,  and 
just  such  weather  as  I  'd  choose  for  all  seasons.  You  just 
wait  till  I  make  a  world  and  see.  When  will  "  Cent.  Die. 
3rd  "  be  out  ? 

Love  to  you.     Adieu.  Yours  ever, 

Ned. 

TO    HORACE    II.    FURNESS. 

16  Gramercy  Park,  New  York,  June  28,  '90. 
My  dear  old  Relic: 

So  many  eons  have  passed  since  your  precious  fist 
lost  my  eye,  that  I  was  quite  staggered  by  it  last  night — it 
came  so  "  round-about-ly."     Your  note  to  B ,  dated 


LETTERS    TO    HIS    FRIENDS  281 

May  27,  had  somehow  been  delayed  (he  's  in  Europe), 
was  opened  through  mistake  by  one  of  his  family,  and 
sent  to  me  last  night,  June  27  —  a  month  from  Eighteenth 
street  to  Twentieth  street !  The  latter  is  my  permanent 
address,  and  whenever  you  wish  to  catch  me  quick,  send 
to  No.  16  Gramercy  Park,  which  is  allee  samee  East 
Twentieth  street,  and  "  don't  you  forget  it !  "  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  let  dear  little  "  Polly  "  go  to  Europe  ?  And 
if  you  did,  you  surely  came  here  to  kiss  her  oft';  and  if 
you  did,  why  did  n't  you  come  to  see  The  Players  ? 
Heartless  one  !       If  I  'm  wrong  in  this,  I  forgive  you. 

I  'm  afraid  that  the  portrait  has  escaped  me  ;  if  so,  I  'm 
sorry,  but  't  is  a  mistake  to  advertise  it  as  "  the  only  por- 
trait of  Booth  before  his  nose  was  broken."  I  have  two 
{Richard  and  Hamlet)  by  the  Tom  Sullys,  father  and  son, 

and  C has  one  {Brutus)  by  Nagle,  Sully's  son-in-law, 

and  my  brother  J has  a  Richard,  by  Shoosmith  of 

England,  from  which  the  engraving  in  my  sister's  sketch  of 
my  father  was  taken.  I  never  heard  of  Robert  Sully  until 
some  months  ago,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  a  gentle- 
man of  that  name  (in  Chicago),  stating  that  a  mistake  had 
been  made  in  crediting  his  uncle  Thomas  with  the  portrait 
of  my  father  now  in  the  club,  and  that  it  was  painted 
by  his  father — Robert.  He  was  thinking  of  the  portrait 
{Lear)  of  which  you  write.  The  Havdct  by  Thomas  the 
Elder  is  a  masterpiece,  a  superb  work,  and  has  a  history 
associated  with  our  war — at  the  fall  of  Richmond.'  The 
one  I  have  of  Richard,  by  the  younger  Thomas,  is  not 
so  good. 

There  is  another  Sully  — Booth  in  Richard  (before  the 
broken- nose  period),  which  I  failed  to  see  while  there, 
three  years  ago  —  which  I  was  informed  had  little  merit. 

1  During  a  raid  upon  the  house  in  which  my  grandfather's  portrait  hung,  one 
of  the  eyes  was  injured  by  a  saber-thrust.  This  my  father  had  repaired  most 
successfully  by  his  friend  Eastman  Johnson. 


2S2  EDWIN    BOOTH 

Notwithstanding.  I  'd  like  to  get  the  Lear,  and  will  write 
to  the  auctioneers  about  it. 

Many  thanks  and  much  love  to  you.     Bless  thee  ! 

Edwin. 

TO    WILLIAM    BISPIIAM. 

BELOVED  Will:  J^'^>^  3,  1890. 

If  you  get  here  before  I  do  (for  I  'm  going  a-sail- 
ing),  why — "you  're  welcome,  welcome,  Gramercy,  wel- 
come !  "  all  the  same.  (That  was  the  burden  of  one  of 
poor  Ned  Adams's  Irish  songs ;  do  you  remember  it  ?) 
Y'r  letter  came  this  A.  M.  I  go  for  my  annual  sail  on 
ye  Sound  with  E.  C.  B .    .    .    . 

Will  return  on  Monday  for  a  few  days,  then  to  the 
Pier,  when  you  shall  have  Carryl  all  to  yourself — either 
here  or  at  No.  12,  "as  you  like  it."  That  "play"  on 
the  play  is  made  "  by  cause  "  both  William  and  Charles 
are  characters  into  it.     Blessings  on  thee  and  all  yourn ! 

Edwin. 

to  mr.  maurice  laupheimer. 
Dear  Sir:  Baltimore,  Nov.  15,  1890. 

I  have  so  many  people  to  care  for  that  I  cannot  assist 

all  for  whom  I  entertain  sincere  sympathy,  L among 

the  number. 

You  once  mentioned  a  subscription  among  his  friends, 
to  which  I  will  gladly  give  my  aid,  but  the  demands 
upon  my  purse  are  so  numerous  and  so  urgent  that  I 
cannot  alone  render  him  much  assistance. 

Please  send  the  inclosed  to  him,  as  I  have  not  his  full 
address.  Truly  yours, 

Edwin  Booth. 

(The  inclosed  above  referred  to  was  a  check  for 
$500.— M.  L.I 


LETTERS   TO   HIS   FRIENDS  283 


TO    HORACE   H.    FURNESS. 

Boston,  December  5,  "90. 
Dear  Horace: 

Thanks  for  your  remarks  on  the  Garrick  "Hamlet"; 
I  did  not  find  'em  till  I  got  here. 

Apropos  of  your  reference  to  the  "  dram  of  Eale  " 

has  e'il  (for  evil)  been  suggested  ?     I  forget,  and  have  no 

Shakspere  with  me.      Mr.  A.  W ,  who  sent  me  a  copy 

of  his  "  Baconian  Facts,"  is  under  the  belief  that  't  is 
original.  Is  it  ?  Consult  the  Furness  Variorum,  and  let 
me  know,  please.  Hope  you  're  all  well.  I  'm  much 
better.     Love  for  all.  Ned. 


TO   HORACE   H.   FURNESS. 

The  Players,  New  York,  April  24,  '91. 
Dear  Horace: 

God  bless  you  for  your  solicitude  in  my  behalf!  Your 
letter  did  me  good,  and  it  should  have  been  acknowledged 
without  delay,  had  it  not  been  for  the  confounded  inertia 
which  overmasters  me  at  times,  and  renders  me  incapable 
of  even  so  little  exertion  as  the  mere  writing  of  a  letter. 
Much  as  I  'd  like  to  see  you,  and  have  you  see  our  club- 
house, I  would  not  have  you  come  so  far  for  a  mere  peep 
at  us,  knowing  how  busy  you  are ;  and  I  am  almost  half 
mad  at  B 's  scaring  you  ancnt  my  ailing:  he  is  over- 
anxious, dear  fellow,  especially  since  poor  Barrett's  death, 
about  my  health,  and  tries  all  methods  to  lift  mc  up:  but 
indeed  his  fears  are  exaggerated;  I  'm  steadily  gaining 
strength,  and,  having  canceled  my  next  season's  engage- 
ments, shall  devote  my  entire  time  to  "playing"  off  the 
stage,  after  so  long  a  frolic  on  it. 


2$4  EDWIN   BOOTH 

So  don't  bo  alarmed  in  the  least  concerning  mc,  but 
when  you  have  leisure  to  pass  at  least  a  couple  of  days 
in  New  York,  do  come  and  loaf  a  little  in  the  quiet  of 
Gramercy  Park  with  your  *'  Players." 

Yesterday  was  our  third  annual  fete — "Ladye  Daye"; 
and,  as  usual,  the  house  was  given  up  to  the  ladies  and 
flowers  and  ice-creams,  and  all  the  other  sweets  that  this 
blessed  season  brings.  Here  I  'm  interrupted  by  my 
daughter,  who  has  just  returned  from  Florida,  where  she 
has  passed  the  winter  with  her  babies,  so  I  must  leave 
you  for  the  present. 

Give  my  respectful  regards  to  your  good  father,  my 
compliments  to  the  ladies — except  "  Polly,"  to  whom,  and 
her  blessed  pa,  I  tender  my  tenderest  love. 

Yours  ever  and  everly,  Nedwin. 


Fame. 

"  Death  makes  no  conquest  of  this  conqueror; 
For  now  he  lives  in  Fame,  though  not  in  life." 


OUTLINE  DRAWING  BY  OTTO  BACKER  OF 
BACK  OF  MEMORIAL  TO  EDWIN  BOOTH. 
DESIGNED   BY   STANFORD   WHITE. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbey,  Henry  E.,  233,  241.  Boker,  George  H.,  104. 

Academy  of  Music,  206.  Booth,  Agnes,  68. 

"Actor,  The,"  96.  Booth,  Barton,  162,  165. 

Adams,  Ned,  282.  Booth,  John  Wilkes,  153,  227. 

Adelphi  Theatre,  229.  Booth,  Junius  Brutus,  45,  71,  78,  96, 

"Agamemnon,"  217.  no,"  151,  153,  155,  172,  173,  175, 

Agassiz,  Prof.  Louis,  157,  165, 166, 174,         199,   227. 

175' 178-  Booth,  Mrs.   Junius   Brutus,   32,  39, 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  62,  80,  116,  122,  178,        43,  51,  65,  68,  172,  199,  208,  227, 

233,  249,  255.  23S,  240,  248. 

Allen,  Prof.,  164,  165.  Booth,  Miss  Mary  L.,  letters  10,229, 

Amelia,  68.  247. 

Anderson,  David   C,  12;   letters   to,  Booth,  Rosahe,  66,  84,  208,  276. 

186,  194,  195,  196,  198,  200,201,  Booth's  Theatre,  7,  187, 1S9,  203,  246, 

202,  203,  206,  209,  210,  214,  215,         262. 

221,  22b,  231,  232,  233,  234,  235,  Brabantw,  ii%. 

237,  238,  239,  240,  241,  242,  244,   Bright,  Jacol),  241. 

245,  246,  247.  Brooklyn  Theatre,  187. 

Ander^^on,  Mrs.  David  C.,66.  Brooks,  Phillips,  105. 

Antony,  80.  Browning,  Robert,  219. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  249.  Brutus,  70,  82,  84,  8S,  89,  153,   193, 

282. 
Badeau,  Adam,  letters  to,  140, 141, 147,  Bull,  Ole,  letters  to,  206,  207. 

148,  150,  225.  Burdett-Coults,  Lady,  222. 

Banquo,  193.  Burton,  W.  E.,  1 16. 

Barrett,  Lawrence,  62,  65,  68,  72,  73, 

77,  79,  80,  81,  83.  84,  86,  87,  88, 90,  "  Caesar,  Julius,"  82,  83,  84,  153. 

93.  94>  95'  97>  98. 100, 101, 102, 104,  Capen,  Nahum,  letter  to,  227. 

106,  107,  III,  112,   113,   114,  117,  Gary,  Miss,  79. 

118,  119,  120,  121,  196,  201,207,   Gary,  Miss  Emma  F.,  136,  161,  162, 

'^7>l^  279.  169;   letters  to,  146,  153,  154,  1 56, 

Barrett,  Mrs.  Lawrence,  119,  120.  164,167,169,172,173,175,176,178. 

Barrett,  Wilson,  78.  Gary,  Gapt.  RichnnI  K.,  letters  to,  131, 

Bashkirtseff,  Marie,"  Journal  "of,  126.  1^2,  133,  134,  135,  136.  138,  146, 

Beatrice,  \^,Zif\.  157,  159,   loi,  165,   169,  170,  173. 

Benedict,  14.  Gary,  Mrs.  Richard  1'.,  letters  to,  158, 

Benedict,  E.  G.,  80,  275,  160.  161,  168,  171. 

Bernhardt,  Sarah,  247.  Cassio,  262,  263. 

Betterton,  155,  176.  Cassius,  154. 

Bierstadt,  Albert.  168.  Ghildhood,  lack  of  sports  in,  34. 

Bierstadt,  Mrs.,  225.  Ghinesc  actors,  270. 

Bispham,  William,  51,  59,  71,  80,  96,  Ghrist,  portraits  of,  as  typo  for  "  niakc- 

98,  109,    III,   112,   123,  124,  127;  up"  of /i'/V//./r,/ //.,  7. 

letters  to,  179,  208,  249,  251,  253,  Glark,  Bishop,  61. 

254,  279,  280,  282.  Glarkc,  John  .S..  166.  17;.  212.  226. 

19  589 


290  INDEX 

Clarke,  Mrs.  John  S.,  75.96,  172,217,  Florence,  William,  loi,  113,  207. 

219, 226,  229.  "  Fool's  Revenge,  The,"  187,  217, 221, 

Cliiiiii,-  M:hiciti\  184.  222. 

Collier,  John,  91,  224.  Formes,  Carl,  son  of,  243. 

Comedy,  acting;  in,  36.  Forrest,  Fdwin,  167. 

Coniiaiiyhl,  l>uke  of,  219.  "Founders'  Night"  at  The  Players, 

Connor,  Mr.,  93.  103. 

Cooke,  G.  F.,  264.  Fox's  burlesque  o{ Hamlet  and  Riche- 

Corio/iifius,  167.  Iiet4,  15. 

Corson,  Prof.  Hiram,  letter  to,  iSo.        Francis,  Dr.,  son  of,  264. 
Crane,  Mr.  William  H.,  73,  ill,  112.  Friar,  the,  57. 

Critics  in  Kni^land,  221.  Furness,  H.  H.,  53,  54,  55,  58,  67,  69, 

Critics  ill  Germany,  9.  93,   115;    letters  to,  179,  182,  190, 

Cushman,  .Miss  Charlotte,  133.  191,  192,  193,  255,  256,  259,  260, 

261,  265,  267,  268,  269,  272,  280. 
Daly,  Augustin,  99,  115.  Furness,  the  Rev.  Dr.  W,  H.,  54. 

Daly,  Jutii;e,  93. 

Daly's  Theatre,  122,  124,  201.  Gale,  Miss,  83. 

Davenport,  E.  L.,  137.  "Ganelon,"  100. 

Davidge,  Mr., 88.  Garrick,  David,  155,  176. 

"  De  Mauprat,"  117,  120.  Ghost,  the,  21,  69,  71,  176. 

Derby,  Miss,  105.  Gifford,  R.  S.,  168. 

DcsJetnona,  68,  256,  257,  262,  263.  Gilbert,  John,  68. 

Dettmer,  F.  S.,  176,  177.  (Wilder,  Miss  J.  L.,  letter  to,  258. 

Devlin,   Mary   (Mrs.   Booth),    letters   Giles  Overreach,  Sir,  68. 

of,  24.  Gordon,  Lady,  214. 

Devrient,  Gustav  Emil,  9.  Gothold,  Newton,  88. 

Devrient,  Ludwig,  243.  Gould,  Mr.,  263. 

Don  C(Fsar,  180.  Graham,  Lorimer,  85. 

"  Donna  Diana,"  105.  Grand  Opera  House,  202,  205. 

Doran's  "Annals  of  the  Stage,"  155.     Grant,  Gen.,  38,  99. 
Drury  Lane  Theatre,  212,  217.  Grau,  Maurice,  letter  to,  181. 

Duke  of  Connaught,  219.  Graze-digger,  243. 

Dunlaps,  the,  74,  107.  Gray,  Mark,  12,  196,  197,  199. 

Duse,  Mile.  E.,  125.  Grossmann,  Edwina  Booth,  letters  to, 

31-128. 
Edgar,  69.  Grossmann,  Ignatius  R.,   54,  59,  63, 

Edmunds,  Miss,  149,  151.  95,  102,  119,  121. 

Eldridge,  Louisa,  233,  234.  "  Guardsman,  The,"  19. 

Ely,  Dowager  Marchioness  of,2i9,22i, 

223.  Haase,  Herr,  230. 

Emilia,  263.  Hamlet,  2,  3,  8,  9,  15,  19,  20,  21,  25, 

Everett,  Edward,  95.  48,  66,  68,  70,  71,  78,  79,  81,  83, 

Ewer,  the  Rev.  Dr.  F.  C,  letters  to,         84,   107.   108,   iii,  126,  133,  137, 

184,187,188,189,196,218.  148,  155,  156,  157,  167,  170,  171, 

Ewer,  Mrs.  F.  C, letters  to,  248,  250,         175,  180,  181,  197,  202,  214,  216, 

252.  218,  220,  221,  242,  245,  269,  271, 

274,  281. 
Faucit,  Helen.     See  "Martin."  "  Hamlet  Medal,"  14. 

Felton,  Prof.,  136,  165,  167.  Hanly,  Mr.,  117. 

Felton,  Mrs.,  letters  to,  138,  161,  162,  Hasslcr,  Mr.,  104. 

169,  170.  Hatton,  Joseph,  217. 

Fenno,  Mr.,  36.  Haymarket  Theatre,  135,  212,  215. 

Ficken,  Mr.,  254.  Hepworth,  the  Rev.  Dr.,  173. 

Field,  Kate,  102.  Heron,  Matilda,  27. 

Fields,  Mrs.  J.  T.,  105,  254.  Holmes,  O.  W.,  249. 

Fish,  Mr.,  165.  Hood,  Thomas,  44. 

Flaglers,  the,  105.  Hopper,  John,  156. 


INDEX 


291 


Horatio,  21.  Macready,  William,  216.  -^ 

Howard,  the,  155.  Madison  Square  Theatre,  204. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  116,  249.  Mansfield,  Richard,  112. 

Huntington,  the  Rev.  Dr.,  143.  Martin,  Lady  Theodore,  14. 

Hutton,  Laurence,  72,  74,  80,  9S,  229,   Mayo,  Frank,  207. 

255.  Maywood,  Robert,  264. 

Huxley,  T.  H.,  214,  219.  "  Merchant,  The,  of  Venice,"  82,  83, 

89,  269. 
lago,  9,  16,  21,  69,  71,  78,  81,  82,  184,  Meredith,  Gilmer,  66,  106. 

242,  256,  257,  262,  263.  Mifflin,  B.  C,  letter  to,  264. 

Irving,  Henry,  14.  198,  212,  216,  222,   Miles,  Robert,  108. 

223,  224,  225,  233,  241.  Modjeska,  Mme.,  105. 

Irving,  Washington,  148.  Motley,  John  Lothrop,  96. 

Mo  watt,  Mrs.,  95. 
Jarrett  and  Palmer,  187.  "  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,"  241. 

Jefferson,  Joseph,  64,  74,  75,  87,  93,  Murdock,  James  E.,  93. 

113,  253. 
Jewett,  Miss,  105.  Nagle,  281. 

Johnson,  Eastman,  54. 

Johnston,  Dr.,  106.  Oberammergau,  17.  218,  220. 

Joyce,  Mr.,  36.  Ophelia,  68. 

Judah,  Mrs.,  245.  Osgood,  the  Rev.  Samuel, letters  to,  i, 

Juliet,  104.  143. 

Othello,  9,  16.  21.  22,  55,  68,  69,  71, 
Katherine,  95.  82,  83,  107,  192,  224,  "242,  245, 257, 

Kean,  Charles,  54,  71,  78,  155,    176,        258,259,261,263. 

177.  Overreach,  Sir  Giles,  68. 

Keller,  Mr.,  55.  Owens,  Mrs.,  87. 

Kellogg,  Dr.,  88,  270. 

King,  Mrs.,  254.  Paris  Opera  House,  240. 

King,  the,  20,  69,  177.  Park  Theatre,  240,  241. 

Kiralfys,  the,  226.  Parsons,  Dr.  T.  W.,  28,93,  '  H:  letter 

Kirkus,  the  Rev.  Mr.,  66.  to,  255. 

Passion  Play,  the,  17,  218,  220. 
Lander,  Gen.,  137.  Pateman,  Mrs.,  233. 

Langtry,  Mrs.,  226,  233,  240.  Peirce,  Prof.,  157.  175. 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  264.  Petruchio,  95,  105. 

Laupheimer,  Maurice,  Icttei  Lo,  2S2.      Phyfe,  W.  H.  P..  letter  to,  256. 
Lawrence,  Colonel,  letters  to,  228, 230,  Piercy,  Samuel,  79. 

265,  274.  Pike,  Mr.,  35. 

Lay, Oliver  I. ,279;  letters  to, 267,273.  "Pip,"  35,  37- 
Lear,g,  13,  14,21,68,69, 183,  192,243,  Players  Club,  The,  85,  87,  91,  92,  101, 

245.  273,  274,  275. 

Lederer,  Mr.,  102.  Poe,  E.  A.,  ^6. 

Leopold,  H.  R.  H.,  221,223.  Polk,  Mrs.,  86. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  155,  172,  227.  Polk,  President,  86. 

Lowell,  J.  R.,  17S.    "  Pohnius,  68,  181,  243. 

Lucca,  245.  Portia,  83. 

Ludlow,  Kitzhugh,  165.  Puck,  108. 

Lyceum  Theatre,  18,  233. 

Queen,  the,  68. 
Macbeth,  2\,(yi),  104, 1 14, 1 18,  193,217. 
McCullough,  John,  212,  217.  Rankin,  Mr.,  207. 

Macduff,  118.  Raymond,  Jol-.n   T.,  207. 

McEntee,  Jcrvis,  51,  67,  195.  R.ivmond,  Mrs.,  79. 

Mack.iye,  Steele,  2'.4.  Richard  II.,  7,  12,  44,  167,  1S8.  192, 

Mackenzie,  Dr.  Morcll,  217.  240,281. 

Macklin,  Charles,  264.  Richard  III.,  43,  75.  >52-  '?<'.  '«) 


292  INDEX 

Kichflieu,  44.  78. 91.  118, 133, 156, 170,  Thompson,  Launt,  8,  35,  65,  148,  230, 

192,  210.  219,  220,  221,  222,  224.  265,  275. 

"Ricnzi,"  68.  Tennyson,  Lord,  14,  155. 

Kisiori,  69.  Tony,  Kllen,  213,  241. 

Ritchie,  Mrs.,  95.  Topham,  iMiss,  letter  to,  275. 

Rolison,  Stuart,  73,  106.  Twain,  Mark,  249. 

A\\/<-n\v,  262,  203.  "Twelfth  Night,"  124. 

"  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  176. 

A'uv  />Vi7.f,  184.  Union  Scjuare  Tlicatrc,  203. 

Ryder,  John,  216. 

"  Valentine,  St.,"  35,  36. 
Salvini,  Tommaso,  16,  68,  69,  71,  182,  Varden,  Mr.,  96. 

246.  "  Venice,  The  Merchant  of,"  82, 83,  89, 

Sanford,  Mrs.,  letter  to,  183.  269. 

Sargent,  John  S.,  103,  iii.  Virginiiis,  217. 

Saunders,  Mrs.  Elizabeth,  226;  letter 

to,  272.  Wainwright,  Marie,  68. 

Scott,  Cien.  Winfield,  95.  Wales,  the  Prince  of,  226. 

Shakspere,  19,  21,  42,  45,  90,  94,  108,  Wallack,  Lester,  88,  240. 

Ill,  113,  154,   176,  177,  189,  197,  Walnut  Street  Theatre,  166. 

199,  214,  257,  261,  271.  Ward,  Miss  Genevieve,  183. 

Shaw,  Mrs.,  175.  Warner,  Charles  Dudley,  249. 

Sherman,  the  Rev.  Thomas,  120,  Warren,  William,  59,  74,  88. 

Sherman,  Gen.  W.  T.,  iii,  120,  140.    Weir,  John  F.,  52. 
Shylock,  44,  58,  82,  83,  89,  256,  258,  Wendell,  Mr.,  93. 

259,  260,  264,  268,  269,  273.  Wcrder,  Prof.,  9. 

Skinner,  Mr.,  105.  White,  Richard  Grant,  262. 

Smalley,  G.  W.,  212,  213,  214,  221,  White,  Stanford,  92. 

225.  Whitridge,  Mr.,  letter  to,  268. 

Smith,  Dr.,  120.  Wilson,  Francis,  112. 

Spicer,  Miss,  letter  to,  277.  Winter,  William,  98. 

Stedman,  E.   C.,  letters  to,  197,  212,  Winter    Garden,    the,   153,   154,   162, 

213,  220,  224,  225.  164,  166,  167,  205. 

Stoddard,  R.  H.,  85.  "Winter's  Tale,  The,"  177. 

Sturtevant,  Mrs.,  61.  Wood,  Miss,  250. 

Sullivan,  Barry,  177.  Wright,  Miss,  247. 

Sully,  Robert,  281.  Wright,  Mrs.,  230. 

Sully,  Thomas,  281. 
Swing,  Professor,  75.  "  Yorick,"  201. 

Young,  Mrs.  William,  letters  to,  276, 
Talma,  243.  277. 

Thaxter,  Mrs.,  56. 
Thomas,  Mr.,  letter  to,  277.  Zimmerman,  Mr.,  104. 


Jlo 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  A  nicies 

This  book  is  DDE  on  the  last  date  stamped  beloWj , 


^|jj:«v  M 


URRAR" 


»F-CA1IF( 


HFfi,,  S 1978 


RtCO  LD-i". 

'R   NOV   3198i> 

OCT  2  9  m 

KncHU 


/ 


Form  L9-Serie8  4939 


"^AajAiNn  ^wv" 


AOVOOIIi^' 


^^^l•UBRARYQ/•^         ^^WEUNIVER%         .^WSANCElfr^ 


'^/iajAINn  3WV' 


'^'f^mnv 


JFCAJ 


vVlOSANCEl£i;>. 


'^^ 


3  11 


-^ 


58  00415  3655 


.j.nf  CAI'^n??;..         -^OFTAUFO;?. 


so  -r 


-< 


AA    000  410  894 


